232 EN ROUTE FOR DAGHESTAN. 



fleecy clouds, the golden colour of an English lassie's 

 hair, while here and there a higher peak caught the 

 bright red glow of the morning. 



Our yemstchik had been taking part in a sister's 

 wedding the day before, and, as he himself said, 

 was devoting himself to getting rid of the headache 

 consequent on the marriage festivities. His remedy 

 was the old-fashioned ' hair of the dog that bit 

 him.' But, luckily for travellers in Russia, a 

 yemstchik never drives so well as when drunk, 

 so our ' troika ' whirled and bumped through the 

 streets, now rapidly filling with their early-rising 

 denizens, in grand style. In and out amongst 

 countless high-wheeled arbas, swearing, shouting, 

 screaming, just grazing one vehicle, slashing the 

 sleepy or sluggish owner of another with Parthian 

 whip, chaffing, chaffed, or cheered, we bowled along 

 at a gallop. How we did not run over foot-pas- 

 sengers or smash some other conveyance I can't 

 understand, for these yemstchiks turn the sharpest 

 corners at full speed, and apparently reck nothing 

 of life or limb. 



Just as we were clearing the bazaar, our kind 

 escort trying, though mounted, in vain to keep pace 

 with us, we met a caravan of the long-eared beast 

 the Brighton cockney loves. Our yemstchik gave 

 a yell, the donkeys stolidly refused to budge, and 

 then followed one of the most brilliant charges on 

 record. The enemy, hampered by the huge packs 



