“Thank God, a dwelling is near.  Turn to the right and go on.”

“Why should I turn to the right?” said the coachman, sulkily, “where do you see a road?”

“Must I say to you these horses, as well as the harness, belong to another? then use the whip without respite.”

I thought my coachman’s view rational.

“Why do you believe,” said I to the new-comer, “that a dwelling is not far off?”

“The wind blows from that quarter,” said he, “and I have smelled smoke—­proof that a dwelling is near.”

His sagacity, the delicacy of his sense of smell, filled me with admiration; I ordered my coachman to go wherever the other wished.  The horses walked heavily through the deep snow.  The kibitka advanced but slowly, now raised on a hillock, now descending into a hollow, swaying from side like a boat on a stormy sea.

Saveliitch, falling over on me every instant, moaned.  I pulled down the hood of the kibitka, wrapped myself up in my pelisse, and fell asleep, rocked by the swaying of the vehicle, and lulled by the chant of the tempest.

The horses stopped.  Saveliitch was holding my hand.

“Come out, my lord,” said he, “we have arrived.”

“Where have we arrived?” said I, rubbing my eyes.

“At the shelter.  God has helped us; we have stumbled right upon the hedge of the dwelling.  Come out, my lord, quick; come and warm yourself.”

I descended from the kibitka; the hurricane had not ceased, but it had moderated; sight was useless, it was so dark.  The master of the house met us at the door, holding a lantern under the flaps of his long coat, the Cossack cafetan.  He led us into a small, though no untidy room, lighted by a pine torch.  In the centre hung a carabine and a high Cossack cap.

Our host, a Cossack from the river Iaik, was a peasant of some sixty years, still fresh and green.

Saveliitch brought in the case containing my tea-service; he asked for fire to make me a few cups of tea, of which I never had greater need.  The host hastened to serve us.

“Where is our guide?” I asked of Saveliitch.

“Here, your lordship,” replied a voice from above.  I raised my eyes to the loft, and saw a black beard and two sparkling black eyes.

“Well, are you cold?”

“How could I help being cold in this little cafetan full of holes.  What’s the use of concealment?  I had a touloup, but I left it yesterday in pledge with the liquor-seller; then the cold did not seem so great.”

At this moment our host entered with the portable furnace and boiler, the Russian Somovar.  I offered our guide a cup of tea.  Down he came at once.  As he stood in the glare of the pine torch his appearance was remarkable.  A man about forty years of age, medium height, slight but with broad shoulders.  His black beard was turning grey; large, quick, restless eyes, gave him an expression full of cunning, and yet not at all disagreeable.  He was dressed in wide Tartar pantaloons and an old jacket.  His hair was cut evenly round.