“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.