TO THE HOLY HILLS 323 
‘No,’ answers Marrk; ‘Russmann’s vodki xo¢ good, 
not good,’ and with that he swigs again. And thereafter, 
as often as he might drink the vodki, he would shake 
his head and say profoundly, ‘Russmann’s vodki ot 
good, no, no, zot good.’ 
Mine was such a vile team that I gave up driving, 
made Marrk take my toorr and hitch my sleigh to his. 
My warrii was a heavy, hornless, sulky bull. We 
tied him afterwards to the back of my sleigh, where he 
did his best to choke himself in his efforts to hang back. 
He moved with a heavy rolling action, very distinct 
from the pace of the younger animals. 
So we kept rising and rising until at last we came 
upon a single yierserk by a little lake. Inside this I 
found the old woman had arranged for me a fine white 
reindeer skin, and insisted that 
they should sleep in the open. 
It had rained so hard during the 
last two hours that everything 
was flooded. However, when J = MARRK’S BELT; SHOWING 
INGENIOUS BUCKLE OF BONE 
crept out to see how the old 
people fared, I found them both snoring, completely 
smothered in skins. 
Sunday, August 26th.—The morning broke so clear 
and fine that I turned out early and walked all round, 
taking stock of the country, which was all of the same 
formation; stony ridges with peat in the hollows and 
