I was coming back from hunting one evening alone in a racing droshky. I
was six miles from home; my good trotting mare galloped bravely along
the dusty road, pricking up her ears with an occasional snort; my weary
dog stuck close to the hind-wheels, as though he were fastened there. A
tempest was coming on. In front, a huge, purplish storm-cloud slowly
rose from behind the forest; long grey rain-clouds flew over my head
and to meet me; the willows stirred and whispered restlessly. The
suffocating heat changed suddenly to a damp chilliness; the darkness
rapidly thickened. I gave the horse a lash with the reins, descended a
steep slope, pushed across a dry water-course overgrown with brushwood,
mounted the hill, and drove into the forest. The road ran before me,
bending between thick hazel bushes, now enveloped in darkness; I
advanced with difficulty. The droshky jumped up and down over the hard
roots of the ancient oaks and limes, which were continually intersected
by deep ruts--the tracks of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A
violent wind suddenly began to roar overhead; the trees blustered; big
drops of rain fell with slow tap and splash on the leaves; there came a
flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The rain fell in torrents. I
went on a step or so, and soon was forced to stop; my horse foundered;
I could not see an inch before me. I managed to take refuge somehow in
a spreading bush. Crouching down and covering my face, I waited
patiently for the storm to blow over, when suddenly, in a flash of
lightning, I saw a tall figure on the road. I began to stare intently
in that direction--the figure seemed to have sprung out of the ground
near my droshky.
'Who's that?' inquired a ringing voice.
'Why, who are you?'
'I'm the forester here.'