THE END OF THE JOURNEY 288 



fell, the old horse jogged placidly on after a first 

 start of surprise, all unconscious that the prostrate 

 form of his driver furrowed the snow, jerking and 

 twitching like a badly -hooked fish. 



Never shall I forget that drive. After our slow 

 and uncertain progress it seemed the perfection of 

 motion. It came to an end at last. Then a short 

 rest, a cup of tea from the ubiquitous samovar, a 

 change of sleighs, good-bye to the buccaneer, and 

 off again. He had done more than drive. He 

 passed us on to a friend with horses not much 

 inferior to his own. He again to another friend, 

 and so on in succession. Birch coppices, villages, 

 towns, river banks, they slid by and faded into the 

 distance. Now beneath grey skies, now in a gleam 

 of sunshine. The snow shone clear and bright 

 beneath the waning moon, or we moved in a pall of 

 darkness, relieved only by the white carpet, which 

 was our salvation. For the thaw was at hand. It 

 could be felt in the air. At times the sleigh 

 runners gritted on bare earth or slid through 

 muddy pools. 



Yet on, on we went without a stop, save to 

 change our sleighs, during four days and nights. 

 In that time we covered 677 versts. Then on the 

 afternoon of March 25th we saw a plume of smoke 

 moving across the horizon. For a time we were 

 puzzled. Then to the north, from a low and 

 confused mass, rose tall buildings, railway sheds, 

 roofs and glittering domes. Before us lay Omsk. 



