I

My comrade had gone, and I was to spend the night alone in our yourt.3

Not feeling in the mood for working, I did not light the fire, and, as I reclined on my bed, I fell by degrees under the dismal spell of the gathering gloom and silence, while the waning daylight merged itself into the cold night-mist. Little by little, the last rays of light disappeared from the ice windows, and profound darkness crept out from the corners, veiling the sloping walls of the yourt, which seemed gradually contracting more and more over my head. For a while, the outlines of the fireplace remained dimly visible, like some ugly Penate of a Yakút dwelling, who, with outstretched arms, meets the invading darkness, as if invoking it in silent prayer. But at last even these faint outlines were lost in the utter darkness. Only in three spots shone a soft phosphorescent light like a gleam from the dark eyes of the Yakút Frost peering in at the windows. Minutes and hours passed in silence, and I was not aware how imperceptibly had crept upon me that fatal hour when a longing for home fully takes possession of one’s soul⁠—the hour when, conjured up by a fevered imagination, all those hills, forests, and interminable steppes that lie between one’s self and all that life holds dear rise threateningly in their measureless and unconquered distance. All so far away and so utterly lost, now beckoning, now seeming to fade from sight, and flickering in the dim distance like the glimmer of a dying hope. The suppressed yet ever present grief, buried deeply in the recesses of one’s heart, now boldly raises its ill-omened head, and, amid the universal stillness and darkness, plainly whispers the terrible words: “Forever in this grave,⁠ ⁠… forever!”

A gentle whining, coming from the flat roof, through the chimney, reached my ears, and roused me from my stupor.

It was my intelligent friend, my faithful dog, who, chilled at his post, was asking what troubled me, and why, when the cold was so severe, I did not light the fire. I rose, conscious that I was playing a losing game in this struggle with silence and darkness, and decided to have recourse to the means at hand⁠—the Spirit of the yourt⁠—Fire.

In winter the Yakút never allows his fire to go out, and has, therefore, no way of closing the chimney. We had contrived some rude appliances so that our chimney could be closed from the outside; but, in order to do so, it was necessary to climb up on the flat roof of the yourt.

I went up on to the roof by means of steps which had been cut in the snow that protected the yourt. Our dwelling stood on the outer edge of the settlement.

Generally, from the roof we could see the narrow valley and the hills that enclosed it, as well as the fires of the yourts of exiled Tartars and of those occupied by the descendants of Russian settlers, who in the course of years had become Yakút. Now, all was enveloped in a cold, gray, impenetrable mist, which hung immovable, condensed by a cold of forty degrees, and pressing the silent earth with increasing weight.

Everywhere, a dull gray expanse of fog met the eye, save where, high overhead, twinkled a solitary star, piercing the cold shroud with its sharp rays.

Around all was still.⁠ ⁠… The high bank of the river, the miserable yourts of the settlement, the small church, the smooth and snowy valley, the dark strip of forest⁠—all became merged in this shoreless sea of fog. The roof of the yourt, with its rude clay chimney, where I was standing, with the dog crouching at my feet, seemed like an island in an illimitable gray ocean.

All was cold, bleak, and still. The night was the embodiment of terror⁠—constrained and watchful⁠—like one who strives to hide himself. The dog whined gently and pitifully, evidently in terror of the benumbing frost. Crouching at my feet, and plaintively stretching out his sharp nose and pricking up his ears, he gazed intently into the thick, gathering dusk.

Suddenly he growled. I listened. At first, I could distinguish nothing; then, in that strained silence, a sound was heard, another and still another⁠—as of a horse galloping far away on the meadows. Thinking of the lonely rider, who, judging by the sound, was as yet some two or three miles away from the hamlet, I hastily ran down from the roof and entered the yourt. An unprotected face, exposed to the air, might result in a frostbitten nose or cheek. The dog, giving one loud and hasty bark in the direction of the galloping, followed me.

Soon in the wide, open mouth of the fireplace, in the middle of the yourt, a bright fire of chips was lighted. I added to it some dry logs of pitchy birch, and in a few moments my dwelling was totally changed. Now the silent yourt was filled with noise and talking. The fire, with a hundred tongues, played among the logs, enveloping them, jumping, snarling, hissing, and snapping. Something bright and living, wide-awake and talkative, filled the yourt, peeping into all its nooks and corners. When, at times, the crackling of the flames ceased, I could hear the hot sparks fly up the short, straight chimney, snapping in the frosty air. But soon the fire renewed its play with redoubled energy, while frequent and loud reports, like pistol-shots, echoed through the yourt.

Now that all around me was moving, talking, bustling, and dancing, I did not feel as lonely as before. The ice windows, through which, but one moment before, the frosty night had peered, now sparkled like gems, reflecting the flames. I comforted myself by thinking that my yourt alone, like a small volcano in the midst of this cold, dreary night, was pouring out a torrent of fiery sparks, flickering spasmodically in the air, amidst volumes of white smoke.

Motionless as a statue, the dog sat gazing at the fire. From time to time he turned his head, and in his intelligent eyes I could read the expression of love and gratitude. A heavy tramp was heard outside; yet he did not stir, contenting himself with a complacent whine. He knew that these were only our horses, that had been standing somewhere under a fence, and now had come to the yourt, and were watching the sparks fly merrily upward, and the broad ribbon of warm smoke. Suddenly the dog reluctantly turned from the fire, and growled, and the next moment bounded to the door. I let him out, and, from his accustomed post on the roof, he began barking furiously. I looked out of the doorway; apparently, the lonely traveller whose approach I had previously heard through the sensitive silence of the frosty night had been attracted by my cheerful fire. He had taken down the bars of the gate, so as to make a passageway for his heavily laden horse.

I was not expecting anyone of my acquaintances. A native would hardly have come so late; and if he had, he would have known where his friends lived, and would not have turned in at the first fire. “Therefore,” I said to myself, “this can only be some settler.” Generally, we were not anxious to see such company; but now any man was welcome. I knew that shortly the bright light of the fire would grow dim, the flames indolently and slowly enveloping the charred logs; that still later only a heap of coals would remain, with the whispering fiery snakes gliding amongst them, more and more slowly, and finally silence and darkness would reign supreme in the yourt, and again would my heart be filled with sorrow. The faint spark in the ashes would glimmer like a half-closed eye, peering out once or twice, and then dropping to sleep. And once more I should remain alone;⁠ ⁠… alone in the long, endless, and dreary night.

The thought of spending the night under the same roof with a man whose past might possibly be stained with blood did not enter my head. Siberia teaches one to find the man in the murderer; and although a more intimate acquaintance saves one from idealizing “the unfortunate” who has broken locks, stolen horses, or crushed his neighbor’s skull on a dark night, still, such an acquaintance gives one a chance to study the complicated springs of human motives.

One learns what to expect of a man. A murderer is not always employed in murdering. He lives and feels like other men, and like them he is grateful to those who shelter him from frost and storm. But whenever I chanced to make a new acquaintance among these folk, particularly if he happened to be the owner of a saddle-horse, with well filled saddlebags hanging on either side, then the question concerning the ownership of the horse, as well as that of the contents of the bags, called forth certain suspicions, and aroused speculation as to the means and ways of their acquirement.

The heavy horsehair-covered door of the yourt opened towards the inclined wall, a wave of steam followed, and a stranger entered, and approached the fireplace. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well built. One could perceive, at the first glance, that he was not a Yakút, although he was dressed like one.

He wore soft boots, made of pure white horsehide; the wide sleeves of his Yakút fur coat rose in folds over his ears; his head and neck were protected by a large shawl, the ends of which were tied around his waist. This, as well as his Yakút hat, the top of which alone was visible, was thickly covered with frozen snowflakes.

The stranger went up to the fire, and with his benumbed fingers untied the shawl and the leather straps of his hat. When he had thrown them back, I saw the fresh, young face of a man of thirty. His large features were stamped with that peculiar expression that I have often noticed on the faces of the stárostas4 of convict artels, as well as on those of all men whose authority is recognized in their sphere, but who still feel obliged to be on their guard with strangers. His expressive, glancing, black eyes and his protruding jaw betrayed a passionate nature. The vagrant5 (for I judged, from a certain slight, but unmistakable sign, that my guest belonged to this class) was well used to controlling his passions. Only a slight nervous tremor of the lower lip, and the twitching of the muscles of the face at times, betrayed the intensity of some inward struggle.

Fatigue, the frosty night, and perhaps an indefinable sadness which the traveller felt as he rode through this impenetrable fog, had somewhat softened the sharp outlines of his face and stamped their impress on his brow and in his dark eyes so full of pathos. His aspect was in harmony with my present feelings, and awakened in me an unaccountable sympathy. Without further divesting himself of his wraps, he leaned against the chimney and took a pipe out of his pocket.

“How do you do, sir!” he said, knocking his pipe on the corner of the hearth, and at the same time scanning me with a swift yet searching glance.

“How do you do!” I replied, also looking at him with curiosity.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for intruding thus. I only want to warm myself a little and to smoke my pipe; then I will go, for I have friends here who are glad to see me at any time. They live two miles away.”

His tones were reserved, like those of a man who was evidently unwilling to appear intrusive. Again he gave me a quick and scrutinizing glance, as though awaiting my reply in order to form a plan of action in accordance therewith. “I will treat you as you treat me,” his cool and steady glances seemed to say. At all events, the manners of my guest formed a pleasing contrast to the ordinary importunity of the Yakút settlers; though, evidently, had he not calculated on spending the night with me, he would not have led his horse into the yard, but would have fastened him to the fence outside.

“Who are you? What is your name?” I asked.

“My name? I am called Bagyláï. In Russian my name is Vasíli. Perhaps you may have heard about me? I live in the Bayangatáï District.”

“A native of the Urál? A vagrant?”

An imperceptible smile of satisfaction flitted across the lips of the stranger.

“So you have heard about me?”

“N. has spoken to me of you. You were neighbors.”

“Precisely! Mr. N. knows me well.”

“I am happy to welcome you! You will spend the night with me, will you not? I am all alone, and we will start the samovar.”

The vagrant eagerly accepted my invitation.

“Thank you, sir! Since you ask me, I will stay. But I must take off my bags from the saddle, and bring them in;⁠—my horse is fastened in the yard; still, it would be safer. The people in your settlement are sharpers, especially the Tartars.”

He went out, and a moment after returned, bringing in the two saddlebags. Unfastening the straps, he took out the provisions which he carried with him; pats of frozen milk and butter, several dozens of eggs, etc. The eggs he put on my shelves; and the rest he carried out into the entry, so that they would not melt. Then he took off his shawl, his fur coat, and his caftán, keeping on only his Turkey-red shirt and velveteen trousers, and seated himself before the fireplace.

“Well, sir,” he said, looking up and smiling, “I may as well tell you the truth; as I was nearing your gate, I thought to myself, ‘I wonder if the owner will allow me to spend the night with him?’ Of course, I understand very well that there are all sorts of characters among us, some of whom it would be impossible to ask to stay over night; but I am not of that class, I tell you frankly. Did you say that you had heard about me?”

“I have.”

“Well, I am glad of it. I can say without boasting that I make an honest living. I own a cow, a three-year-old ox, and a horse.⁠ ⁠… I cultivate my land, and have a vegetable-garden besides.”

The vagrant said all this in a constrained voice, his eyes fixed on one spot, gesticulating as he spoke, as though he were wondering at himself. His manner seemed to asseverate, “All that I tell you is true.”

“Yes,” he went on, in the same tone of voice, “I work, as God wishes us to do. I consider it better than stealing or highway robbery.⁠ ⁠… As I ride along the road, I see a fire, and I stop at your house.⁠ ⁠… You start the samovar and entertain me. I cannot fail to appreciate all this. Do I not speak the truth?”

“Certainly,” I replied.

While making these statements, the vagrant appeared to be soliloquizing, as if trying to convince himself of the advantages of his present life.

I had heard about Vasíli from my friends. Formerly a vagrant, he had later become a settler, and now for two years had been living in his own house, in the midst of a forest, near a lake, in one of the great Yakút districts. Among the reckless and Godforsaken crowd of settlers, who live from hand to mouth, often stealing and plundering, he was one of the few who preferred to labor, a mode of life which here offered an easy chance to improve one’s condition. Generally speaking, the Yakút are a very good-natured people, and in many districts it is customary to offer the newly arrived settlers substantial help.

Were it not for such help, a man whom circumstances have placed in the rigorous and to him unknown conditions of this country would either soon perish of cold and hunger or take to highway robbery. In a general way such help was more willingly given in the form of “travelling expenses,” by means of which the Yakút commune often endeavors to rid itself of a settler, sending him away to the mines, whence the majority of these uncomfortable citizens never return; yet in most cases where a man shows a willingness to work in good earnest, help is freely proffered. The commune gave Vasíli a hut and an ox, and the first year planted for him six poods6 of wheat.

The harvest was good; and, in addition to this, he hired himself out advantageously to the Yakút as a mower, and also traded in tobacco⁠—so that in two years his affairs were flourishing. The Yakút treated him with deference, the settlers called him “Vasíli Ivánitch” to his face, modifying it to “Vaska” only behind his back. The priests, on their way to visit their parishioners, liked to stop at his house, and, whenever he chanced to call upon them, invited him to take a seat at their table. He was also acquainted with some of the educated class whose lot had been cast in this distant country. It did seem now as though he could live well. Marriage alone remained to be accomplished. Of course, this might be a more difficult task, as vagrants are usually forbidden to marry; but even this could be arranged for a small sum of money, a calf, or a good colt.

Still, as I examined the young vagrant’s energetic face, I could guess that he was somewhat eccentric. After a while, this face attracted me less than at first, though still it was a pleasant one. The expression of his dark eyes was thoughtful and intelligent; his features were strong, his manners easy, and in his voice one could distinguish the satisfied ambition of a proud nature. Only, at times, the lower part of his face twitched nervously, and his eyes grew dim. It seemed to require an effort to preserve this calm tone, beneath which a certain sadness, controlled by his will alone, made itself manifest in spite of him.

At first I could not account for it; but later I understood all. The habitual vagrant was deceived when he declared himself contented with his life, his house, his cow, his three-year-old ox, and the respect that was shown him. In his inmost soul, he was perfectly sure, although he tried to suppress the conviction, that this commonplace life, in a strange and unloved land, was not to his taste. From the depths of his heart arose a longing for the forest life⁠—that unknown, fascinating, and delusive vista already beckoning him. It was thus that I afterwards understood him.

At the moment, I only saw that, in spite of his outward calmness, something was tormenting and troubling him, and a longing was penned up in his soul that demanded an outlet. While I was busy with the samovar, Vasíli remained before the fireplace, thoughtfully gazing at the flames. When all was ready, I called him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, rising. “I am much obliged for your kind hospitality. Ah!” he exclaimed, passionately, turning abruptly toward me, “would you believe me that when I saw your fire, my heart leaped, I assure you. I knew it was the fire of a Russian.

“It was cold and dark while I was riding through the fields; and whenever my horse saw the smoke of a yourt, he was inclined to turn in;⁠—of course, he is a Yakút beast, and does not know any better. But, for my part, I did not care to enter at haphazard, even though it were a comfortable yourt. To be sure, I could have warmed myself, and even have found some brandy⁠—but I did not care to do it. When I saw your fire, I thought to myself, This is the place where I should like to rest, if the master will but grant me leave. Thank you for allowing me to remain; and if you ever happen to come our way, do me the favor to call on me. I shall have the wherewithal to entertain you, and you will be most welcome.”

II

Having finished his tea, Vasíli seated himself before the fire. He could not go to bed as yet, for he had to wait for his horse to cool before he could feed it. The Yakút horse is not particularly heavy, but it has great powers of endurance. The natives use these horses to carry butter and other products to the remote mines, to the woods where the Tungus live, and to the distant Oochur,7 riding hundreds of versts through places where to obtain hay is out of the question. When they wish to camp, they shovel away the snow, make a fire, and drive the horses into the woods, where the intelligent creatures provide for themselves, nibbling last year’s grass from under the snow, and in the morning are again ready for another long expedition. The animal has, however, one peculiarity. It cannot be fed immediately on arriving from a journey or just before starting, and frequently a well fed horse goes without food for twenty hours or more before starting on a journey.

Vasíli had to wait three hours, and, as I did not feel inclined to go to bed myself, we sat chatting at intervals. Vasíli⁠—or Bagyláï, as he was in the habit of calling himself⁠—now and then added wood to the fire. This was a habit of his, which he had acquired during the long evenings of the Yakút Winter.

“Far away,” he suddenly exclaimed, after a prolonged silence, as if in answer to his own thoughts.

“What is far?” I asked.

“Our country, Russia.⁠ ⁠… Everything is so different here, whichever way you turn. Take, for instance, the cattle, or a horse. Our horses, after a long journey, are fed without delay; but if this one were to be fed now, it would die. Look at the people!⁠—They live in the woods, feed on horseflesh and raw meat; even carrion is not despised! It is shocking! They have no delicacy.⁠—If you open a tobacco-pouch in a yourt, immediately all stretch out their hands, like beggars, and you are obliged to share with them.”

“Well, that is their custom,” I replied. “They also give in their turn. They have helped to set you up.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes. That is true.”

“Do you really feel satisfied with your life?” I asked, watching him closely.

He smiled enigmatically.

“With life⁠ ⁠…” he echoed, tossing another log into the fire. The flames lighted his face; his eyes looked dim.

“Well, sir, if I should begin to tell you!⁠ ⁠… I have seen very little good in my life, and little do I see now. Until my eighteenth year it was fairly pleasant, and I lived happily as long as I obeyed my parents. When I ceased obeying them, my life ended. Since that time, I cannot call it a life⁠—only a vain struggle.”

Shadows flitted across his face, and his lower lip trembled convulsively, like that of a child; he seemed to be living in imagination in the time when he “obeyed his parents.” He had become a child again, and, childlike, was ready to weep over his own ruined life.

Noticing that I was looking at him intently, he shook his head.

“It is of no use talking about it! Wouldn’t you like to hear how we escaped from the island of Saghálin?”

Of course, I eagerly assented; and all night, until the break of day, I listened to the vagrant’s tale.

III

On a summer night of 187‒, the steamer Nízhni-Nóvgorod was crossing the waters of the Sea of Japan, trailing behind it, against the blue sky, a long ribbon of black smoke. The steep shore of the Marine Province was visible on the left, through the hazy light of the silvery fog. On the right, the ripples of the Straits of La Pérouse were lost in the distance. The steamer was shaping its course for Saghálin, but the rocky shores of that island were not yet in sight. All on board was quiet and peaceful. On the top of the house might be seen the moonlit figures of the boatswain and the officers on duty, while the flickering lights of the cabins were reflected from the dark surface of the ocean.

The Nízhni-Nóvgorod was “freighted with convicts” for Saghálin. Naval laws are always strict, and on board a ship with such a freight they are still more stringent. During the daytime the convicts, closely guarded, exercised in turn. The rest of the time they remained in their cabin, under deck. There were more convicts than sentries; but, to make amends for this inequality, every step and movement of the gray crowd was controlled by a firm hand, a well disciplined crew strictly guarding against the possibility of a mutiny. Indeed, every chance here was taken into consideration, even the improbable: supposing a wild beast were to make its appearance in the midst of this crowd, and, in its despair, defy all danger; if shots fired through the grating had no effect, and the raging animal threatened to break down its iron cage, even in such a case the captain would still have a powerful remedy at his command.

He would only have to call out to the engineer’s department these words:⁠—

“Have lever so-and-so⁠ ⁠… opened!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” and, instantly, scalding steam would be poured into the convict’s quarter, as if it were but a hole filled with cockroaches. This unique and powerful remedy prevented every possibility of a general outbreak such as might have been feared from the gray population of the hold. They occupied a large cabin with a low ceiling. In the daytime the light came through small deadlights, standing out in the dark background like two rows of buttons⁠—decreasing, and finally disappearing, on the rounded sides of the steamer’s hull. Along the middle of the hold ran a narrow passage, shaped like a corridor. Iron gratings separated this passageway from the bunks of the convicts. Here, leaning on muskets, the sentries were posted. Lanterns, in a funereal line, shed a dim light through this passage in the evening.

Not a movement of the gray passengers behind these bars escaped the eye. Whether a burning tropical sun stood overhead; or the wind whistled through the bending and creaking rigging; or high waves washed the decks in a raging gale, and the steamer groaned under the lashing of the storm⁠—it was all the same to them⁠—to these hundreds of men, who had no concern with what was going on overhead, or whither their floating prison was steering.

Meanwhile, under the pressure of this strict regime, the gray population behind the iron bars lived its usual life, and on a certain night⁠—when the steamer was leisurely flapping its wheels, and the glow of its fires was reflected from the undulating surface of the deep; when the sentries, leaning on their muskets, dozed in the corridors of the hold, and the lanterns, slightly jarred by the sleepless engine, shed their dim and mournful light along the iron-bound passageway⁠—behind the bars, where the sleeping forms of the convicts rested in motionless rows, there, behind these very bars, a silent tragedy was enacted. The gray society in shackles executed its own culprits.⁠ ⁠…

The following morning, at the time of the roll-call, three convicts remained in their bunks, unheeding the stern calls of the guards. When the latter went behind the bars and lifted their coverings, it was plainly to be seen that these three would never again answer to the roll-call.

In every convict artel all the most important affairs are controlled by an influential and united group, while to the mass⁠—the gray, impersonal crowd⁠—such events are often quite unexpected. Terrified by the ghastly tragedy of the night, the population of the hold was at first hushed. An awkward silence prevailed. Outside, one could hear nothing but the splashing of the sea, the noise of the murmuring waves cleft by the steamer’s hull and hurrying along in her wake, the panting breath of the engine, and the monotonous strokes of the piston.

Soon, however, the consequences of the event began to be discussed among the convicts. The officers did not intend to overlook this unpleasant episode, or to ascribe these deaths to an accident or illness. The proofs of the murder were evident. An investigation was instituted, but the convicts unanimously denied all knowledge of the affair. Perhaps at some other time it would not have been difficult to find several persons among them who, through fear or bribes, could be induced to disclose all they knew; now, however, apart from the feeling of comradeship, all tongues, were held by fear. No matter how dreaded might be the officials, or how stern their commands, the artel was more dreaded still. Undoubtedly, some must have been awake that night. Certain ears must have heard the stifled sounds of the struggle “under the cover,”8 the death-rattle, and the panting breath so unlike that of sleeping men; yet no one, by even a syllable, denounced the perpetrators of this terrible crime. The officials were obliged to lay the responsibility upon the acknowledged superintendents of the artel, the stárosta and his assistant. On the same day, they were handcuffed and put in irons. Vasíli, who at that time was known by another name, was the assistant.

Two more days passed, and the affair had been fully discussed by the convicts. It was supposed at first that all traces were concealed; that it would be impossible to discover the culprits; and that the lawful representatives of the artel would only be subjected to a slight disciplinary punishment. To all questions put to them, the convicts had but one straightforward, and plausible answer: “We were asleep.” But on closer investigation the suspicion fell on Vasíli. It is true that in such cases as this the artel always acts in such a way as to prove, conclusively, the innocence of the accused parties, and by adopting such a course Vasíli could easily have shown that he took no part whatever in the tragedy. Nevertheless, while discussing the affairs of the stárosta’s assistant, the experienced convicts, who had been through fire and water, shook their heads dubiously.

“I say, my boy,” said an old, weather-beaten vagrant, one day, to Vasíli, “as soon as we arrive on Saghálin, you had better have your legs in readiness. It is a bad business, that affair of yours!⁠—very bad!”

“Why so?”

“Because⁠ ⁠… is it the first, or the second time that you have been convicted?”

“The second.”

“That’s the trouble. And do you remember whom the dead Féydka reported? Was it not you? He was the cause of your being handcuffed for a week, was he not?”

“You are right.”

“And what did you say to him at the time? The soldiers heard it! Was it not something like a threat?”

Vasíli and the others understood the full significance of this remark.

“Now, my advice to you is to think the matter over, and make up your mind to be shot.”

A general murmur followed this speech.

“Don’t talk like an idiot, Burán!” said the convicts, angrily.

“The old man does not know what he is saying.”

“He is losing his mind from old age. It is a poor joke to talk like that.”

“I am not losing my mind!” exclaimed the old man, indignantly. “Much you greenhorns know! You act as though you were in Russia!⁠—I know the local laws! I tell you, Vasíli, when the report is sent to the governor-general of the Amúr province, you may expect to be shot. Even if, as a great mercy, they whip you with knouts, instead of putting you to death, that will be still worse. You will not survive. You must remember, my dear fellow, that you are on board ship, and that naval laws are twice as strict as land laws. However,” he added, feebly, evidently fatigued with such a long discourse, “I don’t care what becomes of you all.”

The dim eyes of the old man, with whom life had dealt so unkindly, had long been used to look at things through a medium of mingled gloom and indifference. He waved his hand despairingly, and walked away.

Often among such bands of convicts are to be found men fully conversant with the law; and when, after a careful consideration of an affair like the present one, a definite opinion is formed, it is generally confirmed by coming events. In the present case, all the authorities agreeing with Burán, it was decided that Vasíli must escape; and as it seemed likely that he was to be held responsible for the artel, the latter considered itself in duty bound to help him. All remnants of biscuits and rusks were made over to Vasíli, and he began to “form a party” of such as wished to participate in the attempt to escape.

As Burán had already twice escaped from Saghálin, he was naturally among the first who were asked to join. The old man decided without hesitating a moment.

“I am doomed to die in the forest,” he said, “and I don’t know but that such a death is more becoming for a vagrant. Only, my age is against me; for I am getting worn out.”

The old man blinked a moment, then⁠—

“Go ahead and collect your party,” he added. “It would be useless for two or three to make such an attempt; the road is too rough. When ten of us are ready, we can start. You may depend on me; I will walk till my feet refuse to carry me. If it were only my lot to die anywhere but on this cursed island!”

Burán winked rapidly, and tears ran down his weather-beaten face.

“The old man must be getting feeble,” thought Vasíli, as he started off to make up the party.

IV

Rounding the precipitous cape, the steamer entered the bay. The convicts gathered about the hatchways, and with feverish curiosity watched the high shores of the island, looming up before them through the evening twilight.

At nightfall they entered the port. The outlines of the island had the effect of drawing nearer as they approached, and stood out more clearly defined in their black grandeur. The boat stopped. The sailors formed in line, and the convicts were led out.

On shore, in the darkness, a few lights were visible; the water splashed against the beach, the sky was overcast, and a sympathetic cloud of sadness weighed on all hearts. “This is Fort Doué,” said Burán, in an undertone. “Here we shall have to live in barracks at first.”

After roll-call the party was conducted on shore, in the presence of the local officials. Having lived several months continuously on board ship, now the convicts once more walked on solid ground. The steamer on which they had spent so long a time rocked gently in the dusk, softly sighing amid clouds of white steam.

Lights were moving ahead, and voices were heard.

“Is this the party?”

“It is.”

“Show them the way to barrack No. 7.”

The convicts followed the light. They were walking in a disorderly line, and were surprised to have no one beside them, urging them on with musket-butts.

“Say, fellows, there is no escort with us!” several exclaimed in astonishment.

“Keep still!” angrily growled Burán. “What need is there for an escort! There is no danger that you will run away, even if you are not guarded. The island is large, and surrounded by water. You might die of hunger anywhere. Don’t you hear the moaning of the sea?”

A heavy wind was rising. The lanternlights flickered unsteadily under its gusts, and the roar of the sea as it beat on the shore sounded like the raging of an awakened wild beast.

“Don’t you hear it roar?” said Burán, addressing Vasíli. “Look at it,” he continued, “ ‘Water all around us, and trouble ahead.’9 You will have to cross the water; and think of the distance before you come to the crossing!⁠ ⁠… a desert!⁠ ⁠… woods and military outposts!⁠ ⁠… I have a foreboding that this at tempt will not end well;⁠—the sea gives us warning. I fear that I shall not escape from Saghálin; indeed, I do! Twice already have I escaped. The first time, I was caught in Blagovéstchinsk, and the second time in Russia⁠ ⁠… and I was brought here again. It must be my fate to die on this island.”

“All may turn out well,” replied Vasíli, encouragingly.

“You are a young man, and I am worn out. How angrily and mournfully the sea roars!”

The convicts who had occupied barrack No. 7 were removed, and the newly arrived party, temporarily guarded, was installed in their place.

Accustomed to strong bolts and to the confinement of prison-life, they would have rambled over the island like sheep let loose from their enclosures, had they not been thus guarded at first. The old convicts, who had already been living there for some time, were not locked up; for, becoming gradually familiar with the conditions of their exile, they had reached the conclusion that an attempt to escape is a dangerous undertaking, and usually means certain death to those who attempt it; for only the most resolute and determined characters, after long and careful preparations, try this experiment⁠—and such as they might be shut in by ten locks and yet would try to escape either from prison or from out-of-door labor.

“Now, Burán, you must advise us,” said Vasíli to him, on the third day after their arrival. “You are our leader, and you will have to go ahead; so give us our orders. I suppose we ought to be getting ready.”

“What can I advise!” replied the old man, reluctantly. “It is not an easy undertaking, and I am growing old. Well,” after a pause, “about three days hence, the sentries will be withdrawn, and we shall be sent out to work. Besides, we are free to come and go at any time; only, one is not allowed to carry any bag. That is all there is to it.”

“Do advise us, Burán, my good fellow; you know what is best.”

Burán looked gloomy and careworn. He rarely spoke to anyone, but muttered incessantly to himself. It seemed as if this old vagrant, who for the third time had been brought back to the same place, was now losing his energy.

However, Vasíli had in the meantime succeeded in securing ten more able-bodied men, and was teasing Burán, in the hope of rousing him and of awakening his ardor. In this he sometimes succeeded, but eventually the old man always reverted to the difficulties of the road and bad omens. “I shall never escape from this island,” he said, repeatedly, a sentence which expressed the depression of the unsuccessful vagrant. Nevertheless, in his brighter moods, the recollection of former attempts cheered him, and in the evening, when lying in his bunk beside Vasíli, he would talk to him about the island and the roads that they intended to follow.

Fort Doué lies on the western side of the island, facing the Asiatic shore. The Tartar Straits at this place are about three hundred versts in width; to attempt to cross in an open boat would be out of the question, and the vagrants naturally follow either this or the opposite shore of the island.

“If you are anxious to die, you can go anywhere you like,” Burán was in the habit of saying; “the island is large, a wilderness and a forest. Even the native Ghiláks, who are well used to it, find few places where they can settle. If you go east, you run the risk of losing your way among the rocks, or of being pecked to death by hungry birds, or, if you live, you will probably go back of your own accord, when winter comes. If you go south, you will reach the end of the island and come to the ocean, which can only be crossed in a ship. There is but one road for us to follow, and that is to the north, skirting the shore for the entire distance. The sea will be our guide. After travelling some three hundred versts, we shall come to narrow straits, and it is there that we must cross in boats to the Amúr shore. Only, let me tell you, my boy,” here Burán fell into his usual doleful strain, “we shall have trouble in passing the military outposts. The first one is called Várki, the second Pánghi, and the last one Póghib,10 called so because it is usually here that we perish. And dear me! how cunningly these outposts are placed! Wherever a hillock rises, behind it you find an outpost. You are marching along, and stumble upon it without warning. The Lord have mercy on us!”

“But you have already been twice over the ground!”

“That is true.” And the dull eyes of the old man kindled. “Listen to what I say, and do as I bid you. Shortly they will call on those who wish to volunteer as workmen in the mill. Have your names put down on the list; and when they are sending the provisions thither, put your rusks and biscuits in the cart. Peter, a former convict, has charge of the mill. Then will be the time for you to escape⁠—I mean, when you get to the mill. You will not be missed for three days. That is the way things are managed here. You can miss the roll-call for three days before any notice is taken of it. The doctor objects to corporal punishment, because the hospital is in such a wretched condition. If anyone gets tired out and becomes ill from working, he goes into the woods instead of going to the hospital, and often recovers in the open air. But if he does not put in an appearance on the third day, he is considered missing; and were he to come back of his own accord, it would make no difference⁠—he might as well make up his mind, at once, to be flogged.”

“At any rate, I hope we shall escape the flogging,” replied Vasíli; “if we succeed in getting away, we will not return of our own accord.”

“And if you don’t,” growled Burán, “it will be all the same; it will end in the crows devouring your carcass, as it lies not far from one of the outposts. The soldiers have no time to fool away for your sake; they won’t escort you back hundreds of versts. Wherever they see you, they will shoot you down, and there is the end of it.”

“Stop croaking, you old raven! Remember, we start tomorrow. Tell Bobróf what we need, and the artel will supply us.”

The old man mumbled some reply, and left him with downcast head, while Vasíli went to his comrades and bade them get ready. He had given up the duties of stárosta’s assistant some time before, and another man had been chosen in his place. The fugitives packed their bags, exchanged their clothes for the strongest that could be found, and the next day volunteered to work on the mill. That very day they all left work, and lud themselves in the woods. Burán alone was not among them.

It was a well selected party. Among Vasíli’s comrades were a personal friend of his, called Volóydka Makárof, a strong and agile man, who had already escaped twice from Kára; two Circassians, determined fellows, and invaluable as faithful comrades; and a Tartar, a great rogue, but skilful and ingenious. The rest were also vagrants, who had more than once wandered through Siberia.

Already the fugitives had been one day in the woods;⁠ ⁠… the night had passed, and the greater part of the following day; still no Burán. The Tartar was sent to the barracks to look him up. On arriving, he secretly called out an old convict, Bobróf, a friend of Vasíli’s, a man who had great influence among his comrades. The next morning, Bobróf came to the spot where the fugitives were concealed.

“Well, comrades, how can I help you?”

“Send Burán to us at once. We cannot start without him; and if he is waiting because he needs something, help him to get it. We are all waiting for him.”

When Bobróf returned to the barracks, he saw that Burán had made no preparations whatever for starting. He found him walking restlessly about the barracks, talking to himself, and gesticulating wildly.

“What are you about, Burán?” he called out to him.

“Why, what is that to you?”

“How, what is that to me? Why are you not getting ready?”

“I am getting ready for my grave; that is what I am getting ready for.”

This answer provoked Bobróf.

“What do you mean? Don’t you know that the boys have already been three days in the bushes? Do you want to get them whipped? And you call yourself an old vagrant!”

These reproaches touched the old man to the quick.

“My time has gone by. I shall never escape from this island.⁠ ⁠… I am worn out!”

“Whether you are worn out or not, that is your own affair. Supposing you do not reach the end of your journey in safety, supposing you die on the way, you will not be blamed for that; but what if through any fault of yours eleven men were to be whipped? You see, the responsibility resting on you obliges you to go. If I should report this to the artel, what do you think they would do to you?”

“I know it all,” replied Burán; “they would ‘cover’ me, and I should deserve it. It is not becoming for an old vagrant to die such a death. It seems as though it were my fate to go. Only, I have made no preparations.”

“We will get you ready at once. What do you want?”

“Well, in the first place, I want twelve good new coats.”

“But every man has a coat of his own!”

“You mind what I say!” replied Burán, with a show of temper. “I know that they have one apiece; but they need two. Each one will have to give the Ghiláks a coat for ferrying him across. Besides, I want twelve good knives, about three-quarters of an arshin11 long, two hatchets, and three kettles.”

Bobróf called a meeting of the artel, and stated the case. Whoever had a good coat gave it to the vagrants. Every convict has an instinctive sympathy with each daring attempt to escape from their four prison-walls. Knives and kettles were furnished, some being bought, and some given by the convict settlers. In two days everything was ready. Thirteen days had already passed since the arrival of the party on the island, and the following morning Bobróf accompanied Burán to the hiding-place of the convicts, assisting him to carry the provisions.

In accordance with an old convict regulation, the men “stood up for prayers,” something like a Te Deum was read for the occasion, and, bidding goodbye to Bobróf, they started on their journey.

V

“How you must have enjoyed starting!” I exclaimed, observing the animated expression and the cheerful voice of the narrator.

“Indeed, we did! As we left the bushes and entered the woods, it seemed as though we had been born anew. We were very happy. Burán, alone, with downcast head, was marching in advance, muttering something to himself. He did not start in a cheerful mood; he may have felt that he had not far to go. We soon perceived that our leader was not to be relied on, although he was an experienced vagrant, having twice escaped from Saghálin, and was familiar with the road, walking along without hesitation like a dog following a trail, still my friend Volóydka and myself mistrusted him.

“ ‘Look out,’ he said to me, ‘lest we get into trouble with Burán. Can’t you see that he does not act like himself!’

“ ‘What makes you think so?’ I said.

“ ‘Something must be the matter with him. He talks to himself, shaking his head now and then, and has given us no orders. We ought to have halted long before this; but on he walks, regardless of us. I tell you he is not as he should be.’

“Feeling sure that something was wrong, we made haste to overtake him, exclaiming as we came up:⁠—

“ ‘Uncle!⁠—I say, uncle! Why don’t we halt? Isn’t it time to rest awhile?’

“He turned, looked at us, then went on again.

“ ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to rest; the bullets will give you time for that at Várki or at Póghib, and it will be a thorough rest too.’

“ ‘The deuce take you!’ we thought to ourselves; but we did not venture to oppose him, for he was an old vagrant, and it was very possible that we were in the wrong. It would perhaps be wiser to travel as far as we could the first day.

“After walking for some time, Volóydka nudged me again.

“ ‘I say, Vasíli, we had better be on the lookout!’

“ ‘Why, what’s the matter now?’

“ ‘When we started, we were twenty versts from Várki; we have surely travelled eighteen, and we must take care not to stumble on an outpost.’

“ ‘Burán!⁠—I say, Burán! uncle!’ he called out.

“ ‘What do you want?’

“ ‘Várki can’t be far off.’

“ ‘We are nowhere near it,’ replied Burán, and off he started again.

“A catastrophe was close at hand, but, luckily for us, we spied a small boat moored in the river, close to the shore. As soon as we saw it, we all stopped. Makárof had to hold Burán by main force. If a boat were there, surely there must be a dwelling not far away. ‘Halt, boys, and hide in the bushes!’

“Following the course of the stream, we entered the woods. Hills covered with birches rose on either side.

“From early spring the island is veiled in fog, and on this day, as usual, a thick mist enveloped it. As we climbed the hill, a breeze sprang up and drove the fog into the sea.

“Suddenly, at the foot of the hill, we discovered the outpost, almost directly at our feet. Dogs were sleeping in the yard, and soldiers walking about. We were indeed dismayed, for we had barely escaped the very jaws of the wolf.

“ ‘How is this, uncle Burán!’ we said; ‘see the outpost down there?’

“ ‘Sure enough, it is! this is Várki,’ he replied.

“ ‘See here, uncle!’ we said, ‘you mustn’t be vexed, but we have come to the conclusion that, even though you are our senior, we must look out for ourselves; we fear we may get into trouble if we follow your directions.’

“The old man wept.

“ ‘Forgive me, comrades, for Christ’s sake!⁠—I am old,’ he said. ‘Forty years I have been on the tramp, and am worn out; my memory fails me. I remember some things, and I forget others. Don’t be too hard on me! We must make haste and leave this place as soon as possible, for if somebody from the outpost happened to go berrying, or the dogs were to get on our scent, all would be lost!’

“We started forward, discussing this matter as we went along, and decided to watch Burán. I was chosen leader, to determine the time and place for halting and to make all necessary arrangements. Burán was still to walk ahead, for he alone knew the way. His feet were tough; faint as he often grew with fatigue, they never failed him, as he went waddling along. And thus he walked till he drew his last breath.

“We followed the highlands, a safer although more difficult course. On the hills the woods rustled and the streams ran playfully over their rocky beds. The Ghilák aborigines live in the valleys, by the riverbanks, or by the seaside, because they feed on fish, of which there is so great a quantity that one who has not seen for himself could hardly believe the accounts⁠—we used to catch them with our hands.

“Thus we cautiously advanced, sniffing the air as we walked along. Wherever we deemed it safe, we came down to the seashore or to the bank of some river; but if there was the slightest suspicion of danger, we ascended to the highlands at once, carefully avoiding the outposts, which are stationed at irregular intervals. In some places they are posted fifteen and in others perhaps fifty versts apart. So irregular were the intervals, it was impossible to divine their location. But the Lord was merciful to us; and we escaped all of them, until we came to the very last one.”

VI

Here the narrator frowned, and relapsed into silence. After a while he rose.

“But how did it end?” I inquired.

“It seems to me that my horse must be dry by this time.⁠ ⁠… I must unfasten him.”

We went out into the yard. The frost had diminished, and the fog was lifted. The vagrant looked at the sky.

“It must be after midnight,” he said, gazing at the stars. Divested of the veil of fog, the yourts of the neighboring settlement had now become plainly visible. The village was sleeping. White columns of smoke rose leisurely and indolently into the air; only now and then from some chimney a shower of sparks suddenly flew up, madly leaping in the frosty air. The Yakúts keep their fires going all night, for the heat escapes quickly from their short, open chimneys, and it is the habit of each person who chances to wake, made restless perhaps by the cold, to throw on fresh logs.

The vagrant remained silent for some time, gazing at the village.

“This reminds me of our villages,” he said, with a sigh. “It is a long time since I have seen one. The Yakúts in their districts live apart, like wild beasts.⁠ ⁠… I wish I could move to this part of the country. I might perhaps endure life here.”

“Can’t you endure it in your own district? You have a farm there, I think. You said, just now, that you were satisfied with your life.”

For some time he made no reply.

“I cannot bear it! I wish I might never see this country again!”

He went up to his horse, felt of his neck, and patted him. The intelligent animal turned his head and neighed.

“All right, all right!” said Vasíli, caressingly; “you may go now.⁠ ⁠… I intend racing with the Tartars,” he continued; “he is a good horse. I have trained him so that he can compete with any of them. He goes like the wind.”

He took off the bridle, and the horse trotted off to the hay. We returned to the yourt.

Vasíli’s face was still gloomy. He seemed to have forgotten or perhaps was unwilling to continue his story; but I reminded him of it, saying that I was anxious to hear the end.

“There is not much to tell,” he replied, reluctantly, “and what is the use? It is a sad story; but, as I began it, I suppose I may as well finish it.⁠ ⁠… We travelled in this way twelve days longer, and still we had not reached the end of Saghálin, whereas we ought to have crossed to the Amúr by the eighth day, and all this was due to lack of confidence in our leader. Instead of going by the easier way wherever it were possible, we travelled across the highlands, sometimes through ravines, sometimes plunging into the depths of forests, now crossing barren spots, now forcing our way through thickets.⁠ ⁠… It was slow work. Our provisions were nearly exhausted, for we had only taken food enough to last twelve days.⁠ ⁠… We had to cut down our rations. The supply of biscuits grew short, and everyone had in a measure to provide for himself. Berries, however, were plenty, and finally we reached an estuary of the sea. The water was naturally salt; but when, at times, the flow of the Amúr rushed in greater volume than usual, it became fresh. Well, now we had to think of providing boats to cross to the Amúr side. We were anxiously talking over our plans, and wanted Burán to advise us. The old man had weakened perceptibly;⁠ ⁠… his eyes had grown dim, day by day he lost flesh, and we could get no advice from him, ‘Get the boats from the Ghiláks,’ he said; but where to find the Ghiláks, or how to obtain the boats, he seemed unable to tell. So Volóydka and I said to the boys: ‘You had better remain here, and we will follow the shore, and may possibly chance to fall in with some of the natives and to obtain one or two boats. In the meantime, be on your guard, for there must be an outpost somewhere near by.’

“Most of the boys remained behind, while three of us, following the shore, went on. After a while we came out upon a cliff that overhung the river, on the banks of which we saw a Ghilák mending his sails. God must have sent Orkún to us.”

“What does ‘Orkún’ mean? Was that his name?” I inquired.

“I am sure, I don’t know,” replied Vasíli. “It may have been his name, but I think that in the Ghilák language it means ‘stárosta’⁠—I am not positive. I only know that, as we approached him cautiously lest he might run away, he pointed to himself, repeating: ‘Orkún, Orkún’; but what ‘Orkún’ meant, we did not understand. However, we spoke to him. Volóydka took a stick and drew a boat on the sand, as much as to say, ‘This is what we need.’ The Ghilák understood him at once; he nodded, and raised his fingers⁠—two at first, then five, then the whole ten. For a long time we could not understand what he meant; but at last Makárof guessed.

“ ‘He wants to know how many there are of us, and what kind of boat we need?’

“ ‘Oh, yes! of course, that is what he means!’ and we made signs to the Ghilák that there were twelve of us. He nodded again, so as to let us know that he understood that also. Then he asked us to take him to the rest of our party. We hesitated;⁠—and yet what was there to be done? We could not cross the sea on foot, so we carried him back with us.

“Our comrades blamed us. ‘Why did you bring this Ghilák here? Do you want to betray us?’ But what could we have done? ‘Keep still!’ we replied; ‘we are managing this business!’ Meanwhile, the Ghilák was walking calmly about, examining our coats. We gave him all the extra ones, which he strapped up, and, shouldering them, started on his way, and we, as a matter of course, followed him. A few Ghilák yourts stood below, forming a sort of settlement.

“ ‘What are we to do now, boys? He has gone to the village to call out the inhabitants.’

“ ‘ “What of that!’ we said. ‘There are but four yourts in all; how many people can there be, do you suppose! There are twelve of us, and our knives are three-quarters of an arshin long⁠ ⁠… besides, the Ghiláks are not equal to Russians in strength. They live on fish, and we live on bread. How much strength can anyone gain living on such food! They are not to be compared with us!’ But, to tell the truth, I too was somewhat alarmed lest misfortune should befall us. I thought to myself, ‘We have reached the end of Saghálin; will it ever be our luck to cross to the Amúr side, looming up with its blue mountains in the distance? If only it were possible to become a bird and fly across! But “though the elbow is near, one cannot bite it.” ’12

“After we had waited for some time, we saw a party of Ghiláks coming toward us, with Orkún at the head; all were armed with spears. ‘You see,’ said the boys, ‘the Ghiláks are coming to fight.’⁠—‘Well, let them come. Get your knives ready, boys, and don’t let yourselves be taken without a struggle. Stand on your guard! Not a man must be taken alive! If one is to be killed, it cannot be helped⁠—that’s his fate; but stand up and defend yourselves as long as you have breath in your body! Let us escape or perish together! Make a bold stand, boys!’

“We suspected the Ghiláks without any cause. When Orkún saw that we were preparing to defend ourselves against an attack, he disarmed his people, giving all the spears to one man, and thus approached us. When we became convinced that the Ghiláks were dealing honorably with us, we went with them to the spot where their boats were hauled up, ready for us. There were two of them, of different sizes. The larger boat would hold eight, and the rest of the party were to go in a small one.

“The boats were ours; but we could not cross at present, for the wind had sprung up from the direction of the Amúr, and large waves were dashing on our shore. In rough weather it would be impossible to cross in such boats, and we therefore were obliged to remain on shore two days longer.

“Meanwhile, the provisions gave out, and, beside the fish that Orkún had kindly given us, we had nothing but berries to keep us alive. This lasted us four days. A worthy and honest Ghilák was Orkún; I often think of him now, God bless him!

“Another day passed, and still the wind prevented us from starting. It was a great disappointment. The night wore away, and yet the wind had not abated; it was hard to bear! During these four windy days the Amúr shore stood out clearer than ever, for the fog had entirely disappeared. All this time, Burán remained seated on a rock, his eyes fixed on the opposite shore. He neither spoke nor did he, like the others, go in search of berries. Whenever one of us, taking pity on him, brought him berries, he ate them, but would not take the trouble to get them for himself. It may have been that the heart of the old man was sick with longing, or perhaps he was conscious of the approach of death.

“Finally, our patience was exhausted, and we made up our minds that when night came on we would start. Not daring to run the risk in the daytime, lest the soldiers from the outpost should perceive us, we thought we might venture by night with less risk of detection, hoping, by God’s help, to cross in safety.

“In the straits, the wind blew as hard as ever; whitecaps danced here and there, and the seagulls shrieked like evil spirits. The rocky shore groaned as the sea dashed madly against it.

“ ‘Let us lie down and sleep, boys,’ I said; ‘the moon rises at midnight, and then, by God’s help, we will start; that will be no time to rest, and we shall need all our strength for the journey.’

“They heeded my advice, and all threw themselves on the ground. We had selected a place on the shore, near the cliffs, where we could not be seen from below⁠—trees concealing us. Burán alone did not fall asleep⁠—he sat watching the west. When we lay down the sun was still high above the horizon, and it was quite early in the evening.

“I made the sign of the cross, listened for a while to the wind whistling through the forest, then dropped asleep. We were off our guard, unconscious that misfortune was about to befall us.

“How long we slept, I cannot say. All at once I heard Burán calling me. I awoke and saw that the sun was about to set, and that the sea had grown calm. Burán, with widely dilated eyes, was standing beside me.

“ ‘Get up; they have come after our souls already⁠ ⁠…’ he exclaimed, pointing to the bushes.

“I started, and in the direction towards which he was pointing I saw the soldiers, the nearest one aiming at us, another following him; while three more were running down the hill, pointing their guns at us. I was wide-awake in a moment, and called to the boys. They too woke, and sprang instantly to their feet. The nearest soldier was the only one who had time to fire before we were upon them.”

A suppressed emotion choked Vasíli’s voice; he hung his head. A partial darkness enveloped the yourt, for he had forgotten to throw in fresh logs.

“I ought not to have told this story,” he said.

“Why not? But you must finish it, now that you have begun!”

“Well, there is not much to tell; you can easily guess the rest. There were but five of them, and we were twelve. Besides, they expected to catch us asleep, and shoot us down like woodcocks; instead of that, we hardly gave them time to combine their forces or to decide what they ought to do.⁠ ⁠… You know, we had long knives.⁠ ⁠… They fired one hasty volley, and missed.⁠ ⁠… Then, as they had started down the hill, they were unable to stop. Would you believe it!” he continued, in a mournful voice, lifting his sad eyes, “they did not even know how to defend themselves⁠—beating the air with their bayonets, as if defending themselves from a pack of hounds, while we beset them like a pack of wolves!⁠ ⁠… One soldier grazed my leg with his bayonet; I stumbled and fell, and he over me, Makárof falling on us both. We got up⁠—Makárof and I⁠—but the soldier remained where he fell.

“As I rose, I saw that the last two men had run up the hill. Their officer, Saltánof, was a brave and fearless fellow, whose fame had spread far and wide. Even the Ghiláks feared him as they did the Evil Spirit, and many convicts had been killed by his hand.

“There were two Circassians among us⁠—daring fellows, and as agile as cats. One of them threw himself on Saltánof. They had met halfway up the hill. Saltánof fired his revolver at him; the Circassian ducked, and both fell to the ground. The other Circassian, thinking that his friend had been killed, threw himself on Saltánof, and we had not time to breathe before, in the twinkling of an eye, he had severed Saltánof’s head with his knife.

“He jumped on his feet,⁠ ⁠… grinned,⁠ ⁠… and held the head in the air.⁠ ⁠… We were struck dumb.⁠ ⁠… Shrieking something in his own language, he swung the head around, and tossed it up.⁠ ⁠… It flew high above the trees, and disappeared behind the cliff.⁠ ⁠… We were awestricken.⁠ ⁠… We heard the splash as it fell into the sea.

“The last soldier had paused on the hill; we saw him throwing away his musket, and covering his face with his hands as he ran away. We did not pursue him, thinking, ‘Escape, poor soul, if you can.’ He was the only surviving man on the outpost. There had been twenty of them, but thirteen had gone over to the Amúr side, where the high wind had detained them; and the remaining six were killed.

“All was over, and yet we were frightened. Glancing at each other, we could not at once realize whether it had been a dream or a reality. Just then we heard someone groaning behind us, and under the trees, on the very spot where we had been sleeping, sat Burán, moaning. He had been shot by the first soldier, but did not die till the sun had set behind the hill. We were inexpressibly grieved.

“We went to him and found him sitting under a cedar-tree; his eyes were filled with tears, and, pressing his hands to his chest, he beckoned to me.

“ ‘Let the boys dig a grave for me,’ he said. ‘You cannot start before night, at any rate, on account of the danger of meeting the rest of the soldiers in the straits. Bury me here, for Christ’s sake!’

“ ‘Hush, hush, uncle Burán! God bless you!’ I said. ‘How can we dig a grave for a living man? We will take you across to the Amúr, and then carry you in our arms.’

“ ‘No, my boy; it is useless to contend with fate, and I am sure it is my fate to remain on this island. So you had better do as I say, for I have long felt that this was going to happen. All my life 1 have tried to escape from Siberia into Russia; I wish I could, at least, die on Siberian soil, and not on this cursed island.’

“I confess that Burán took me entirely by surprise; for now he spoke sensibly, quite like a different being, and seemed fully conscious. His eyes looked bright; his voice only sounded weak. He gathered us about him and gave us the following instructions:⁠—

“ ‘Listen to me, boys, and remember what I tell you; you will not have me with you when you travel through Siberia, since it is my fate to remain here. It will be dangerous business for you, the more so for having killed Saltánof. The report of this deed will travel far. It will be known not only in Irkútsk but throughout Russia; and in Nikoláevsk they will be on the watch for you. Be on your guard, boys; travel cautiously; rather suffer cold and hunger than run the risk of capture; avoid cities and villages as much as possible. Do not fear the Ghiláks; they will not harm you. And remember what I am going to tell you about the road on the Amúr side; a little beyond the town of Nikoláevsk lives our benefactor, the clerk of Merchant Tarkhánof. He traded formerly with the Ghiláks on the island of Saghálin, and once while travelling with his merchandise he lost his way in the mountains. He was not then on good terms with the Ghiláks. Overtaking him in an unfrequented spot in the ravine, they nearly killed him.

“ ‘We happened to be tramping about the same time.⁠ ⁠… I was escaping for the first time.⁠ ⁠… Hearing the cries of a Russian in the woods, we hurried to his rescue, and, by delivering him from the hands of the Ghiláks, won his lasting gratitude.

“ ‘ “I must take care of the Saghálinian boys to my dying day,” he said, and, indeed, he has helped us a great deal. Find him, and he will be sure to assist you in every way he can.’ Then he told us of the different roads, giving us all the necessary directions, and finally said:⁠—

“ ‘Now, boys, you had better lose no time. This spot suits me; dig my grave here, Vasíli, that the wind from the Amúr shore may blow over my grave, and that my spirit may hear the sound of the sea dashing against the rocks. Don’t tarry, boys, but make haste and go to work.’

“We obeyed him.

“There, under the cedar-tree, sat the old man while we were digging his grave with our knives; after we had finished, a prayer was read. In the meantime, Burán had become silent, only nodding his head, while tears ran down his cheeks. He died at sunset, and shortly after dark we buried him.

“The moon had risen as we reached the middle of the straits, and it was quite light. We looked back and took off our caps.⁠ ⁠… Behind us rose the island of Saghálin, with its hills, and we saw the cedar-tree by Burán’s grave.

VII

“When we reached the Amúr shore, the Ghiláks said to us: ‘Saltánof⁠ ⁠… head⁠ ⁠… water.⁠ ⁠…’ The natives are shrewd; the magpies so to speak, carry news on their tails. No matter what happens, they are sure to hear of it at once. We met several of them by the shore, fishing, who nodded laughingly at us. Evidently, they too were pleased; but we thought to ourselves. It is very well for you to laugh, you imps, while we have to suffer for it. That head may cost us our own! They gave us fish, and, after inquiring about the way, we started on, walking as though we were treading on eggs, every sound startling us. All the time we were on the lookout, avoiding dwellings and the Russian huts, and concealing our tracks as we went on.

“We travelled by night, resting all day in the woods. At dawn we reached Tarkhánof’s place. A new house stood in the field; it was fenced in, and the gates were closed. Judging from the description that it was the one Burán had told us about, we approached and knocked softly. Someone was starting a fire inside. ‘Who is there, and whence do you come?’ a man’s voice called out.

“ ‘We are vagrants,’ we replied. ‘Burán sends his regards to Stakhéy Mítritch.’

“Stakhéy Mítritch, Tarkhánof’s head clerk, happened to be away at this time, and in his absence had left his assistant in charge, telling him, in case any vagrants should arrive from Saghálin, to provide them with boots and sheepskin coats, and to give them five rubles apiece. Furthermore, to furnish them with as much linen and provisions as they required. ‘No matter how many there may be, provide enough for all. Get your workmen together as witnesses, so that your accounts will be in proper shape.’

“The news of Saltánof’s fate had reached here also, and the clerk was frightened when he saw us.

“ ‘Are you the men who killed Saltánof?’ he said. ‘You will have to look out for yourselves.’

“ ‘Whether we did or not, that is not the subject we wish to discuss. What we would like to know is whether we can expect any assistance from you. We are requested to convey Burán’s regards to Stakhéy Mítritch.’

“ ‘And where is Burán himself? Did he return to the island?’

“ ‘Yes, he returned to the island, and he wishes you a long life.’13

“ ‘May he inherit the kingdom of heaven!⁠ ⁠… He was a worthy vagrant, although perhaps not very shrewd. Stakhéy Mítritch often spoke of him. I dare say, he will have his name put down for prayers. What was his Christian name? Do you know, boys?’

“ ‘No, we do not. He was always called Burán. Most likely, he had forgotten it himself; of what use is a name to a vagrant?’

“ ‘Now you see the result of such a life as yours! Is it not sad that when the priest wishes to pray for you he cannot utter your name.⁠ ⁠… The old man may have had relations in his native land,⁠ ⁠… brothers and sisters, or perhaps even children.⁠ ⁠…’

“ ‘Very likely. Though a vagrant discards his name, he is born into the world like the rest of humanity.⁠ ⁠…’

“ ‘A hard life, indeed!’

“ ‘None worse. We beg the food that we eat and wear clothes discarded like our own names. Nor is every vagrant fortunate enough to be buried. If he should happen to die in the wilderness, his body would become a prey for birds or beasts.⁠ ⁠… Even his bones are liable to be scattered by the wolves. What could be harder!’

“Such talk made us sad,⁠ ⁠… and, though we had said all these things chiefly to touch the sympathy of the clerk⁠—since the more pitiful the story, the more the Siberian is likely to give you⁠—we knew very well that we had given a true and unvarnished account of ourselves. We could not help thinking how this man, after hearing our sad story, would make the sign of the cross and go to bed⁠ ⁠… in warmth and comfort, he had no one to fear!⁠ ⁠… Whereas we should have to wander in the woods at dead of night, and, like swamp-imps, hide from all Christians at the first crowing of the cock.

“ ‘Well, boys,’ the clerk said at last, ‘it is time for me to go to bed. I will give you twenty kopeks extra; take it and go your way. I shall not wake all the workmen, but I will call three of my most reliable ones as witnesses. I suspect I shall get myself into trouble on your account.

“ ‘Now, look out. I advise you to avoid Nikoláevsk. I was there not long ago; the isprávnik14 is an energetic man, and has issued orders to detain all travellers, no matter where they happen to be found. He is reported to have said: “I will not let a magpie fly by nor a rabbit pass nor a beast escape me! much less will I suffer those Saghálinian fellows to slip through my fingers.” You will be lucky if you manage to elude him; and be sure on no account to enter the town.’

“He gave us the usual quantity of provision, including fish, also the twenty kopeks which he had promised. Then he made the sign of the cross, went into the house, and locked the door. The fire went out, and the men went to bed. It was but a short time before dawn when, with heavy hearts, we started once more on our journey.

“How often have we felt thus! On dark nights, in deep forests, drenched by the rain, buffeted by the wind, with no spot on earth where we could seek refuge or shelter!⁠ ⁠… Still, one longs to see one’s mother-country. And yet, if ever a man reaches it⁠—where every dog knows him to be a vagrant, and where officials are vigilant and numerous⁠—how long do you suppose he would remain at large in his own native place?⁠ ⁠… The prison awaits him!⁠ ⁠… At times even the thought of a prison was a comfort, and that’s a fact! So it was on that night as we walked along.

“ ‘I wonder what our folks are doing now, boys!’ suddenly exclaimed Volóydka.

“ ‘Whom do you mean?’ I asked.

“ ‘I mean the Saghálinians, our comrades of barrack No. 7. I suppose they are sleeping just now, free from care! And here are we poor wretches.⁠ ⁠… We ought not to have started.⁠ ⁠…’

“ ‘Don’t be like an old woman,’ I replied, pretending to be angry. ‘It would have been better if you had remained there, since you are so short-breathed, for you only distress us with your whining.’

“Yet I felt very much the same myself. We were weary, and dozed as we trudged along. A vagrant acquires the habit of taking naps when on his feet, and whenever I dozed I invariably dreamt of the barracks.⁠ ⁠… It seemed to me as if the moon were shining, and I saw the walls glittering in its light; I dreamed, too, that I saw the barred windows, and, behind them, the convicts sleeping in their rows of bunks. Then, again, I dreamed that I also was lying there, and stretching myself⁠ ⁠… but when I made the motion, the dream vanished.

“What is more painful for the vagrant than to dream of his father and mother? In my dream, it was as if nothing had ever happened to me, as though neither prison nor Saghálin had ever existed; it seemed as if I were lying in my parents’ house, and my mother, softly humming, were combing and smoothing my hair. A candle stood on the table, and my father, with spectacles on his nose, was reading an ancient book⁠ ⁠… he was a bookkeeper.⁠ ⁠…

“Arousing from my doze, I felt as if I could have stabbed myself then and there. Instead of home, I saw a narrow forest-path; Makárof was walking ahead, and we were following him in single file.

“Fitful gusts of wind rose every now and then, swaying the branches, and, again subsiding, left everything silent as before. Through the trees, in the distance, we caught glimpses of the sea, and above it a bit of the sky, showing the first faint vestige of dawn, a warning for us to hide in some ravine. The sea is never, never silent; you may have noticed that yourself. It always seems to be talking, or singing, or murmuring something.⁠ ⁠… It was this that made me dream ever of songs. The sea always made us feel homesick⁠ ⁠… because we were not used to it, I suppose. As we approached Nikoláevsk, the country grew more thickly settled, and our danger increased; but we still pushed slowly along. We travelled by night, and by day hid in thickets, so dense that beast or bird could hardly have penetrated, far less a human being. We ought to have avoided the city of Nikoláevsk; but we were exhausted, wandering in the wilderness, and our provisions were nearly out. One evening, toward night, we reached the river, and perceived some people on the banks. As we drew near, we recognized them to be the ‘Free Company.’15 They were seining. We approached in an easy, self-composed manner.

“ ‘How do you do, gentlemen of the Free Company!’

“ ‘How do you do!’ they replied. ‘Where do you hail from?’

“By degrees we entered into conversation with them. Their stárosta, after looking at us attentively, called me aside and said:⁠—

“ ‘Are you not the men from Saghálin? Is it you who have “covered” Saltánof?’

“I must confess I was in doubt whether it would be wise to tell him the truth; for, though he was a fellow-convict, yet, in a matter such as this, I hesitated to confide in anyone. If one stops to consider, a Free Company is a very different matter from an ordinary convict artel; for, should any of them wish to curry favor with the officials, he could secretly report us⁠—for was he not a ‘free man’? Inside the prison-walls, we were acquainted with all the spies; whenever we were betrayed, we knew at once whom to suspect. Here we were at the mercy of all.

“Noticing my hesitation, he added: ‘Have no fear; I would not betray a comrade! Moreover, it is none of my business; I take your word for it. Only, as I had heard that a crime had been committed on Saghálin, and as there are eleven of you, I suspected it. This is a dangerous business, boys; it was a bold deed, and our isprávnik is a shrewd one, I assure you. But, then, that’s your own lookout. You will be lucky if you succeed in getting away. Now, let me offer you some provisions belonging to the artel, which were left over; you are welcome to them, as we are to return tonight. You can also have what bread there is left, and some fish. Don’t you need a kettle?’

“ ‘An extra one might come handy.’

“ ‘Take the one that belongs to our artel. I will bring you more things in the night, for I always feel it my duty to help a comrade.’

“We were much relieved. I took off my hat and bowed to this kindhearted man. My comrades also thanked him.⁠ ⁠… We were glad to receive the provisions, but still better pleased to hear a kind word. Until now we had held aloof from all, being well aware that death was the only thing we could expect from any man; and these men pitied us. In our joy, we nearly got ourselves into trouble.

“After they had left us, our boys grew more cheerful, and Volóydka even began to dance. We forgot our anxiety, and, on entering a deep valley, near the riverbank, called Dickman’s Valley, after a German steamship-owner by the name of Dickman, who built his steamers there, we made a fire, and hung the two kettles over it. In one we made tea, and in the other fish-chowder. By that time it was nearly night, and soon after it grew quite dark, and rain began to fall; but as we were sitting by the fire, drinking tea, it did not trouble us much.

“There we sat chatting, as snug and comfortable as one could wish, not dreaming that, since we could distinguish the city lights, our fire also might be visible to the inhabitants. That shows how careless we sometimes become. When we travelled in the woods and mountains, we feared every noise, and here, in sight of the city itself, we had built a fire, and sat around it, chatting as unconcernedly as possible.

“Luckily for us, an old officer, who for many years had been superintendent of one of the Siberian prisons, was then living in the city. The prison was a large one, and many men had been confined there at different times, every one of whom spoke well of this old gentleman. Everybody in Siberia knew Samárof; and when I heard, not long ago, that he was dead, I took pains to go to the priest, and paid him fifty kopeks to have his name mentioned in the prayers for the dead. He was a good old man! May he inherit the kingdom of heaven!⁠ ⁠… Only, he would use the most abusive language. Such a spitfire as he was! He would storm and rage, stamping, and shaking his fists; but nobody feared him. All tried to please him, for he was a just man. It cannot be said that he ever abused or imposed on anyone, or that he ever took a kopek of the artel’s money, except what was freely given him for his kindness. For, as he had a large family, the convicts always remembered him,⁠ ⁠… and from them he derived a good income. At the time of which I am speaking, he was already on the retired list, and lived quietly in Nikoláevsk, in a house of his own. Still, for old memory’s sake, he took an interest in us, and that evening, while sitting on the porch of his house, smoking a pipe, he saw a fire in Dickman’s Valley.

“ ‘I wonder who started that fire?’ he thought to himself.

“Just then three men belonging to the Free Company happened to be passing by. Hailing them, he said:⁠—

“ ‘Where did your company fish today? Can it be that they are in Dickman’s Valley?’

“ ‘No, your honor,’ they replied. ‘They must be farther up. Besides, they are expected to return tonight.’

“ ‘So I thought.⁠ ⁠… Do you see that fire beyond the river?’

“ ‘Yes.’

“ ‘Who do you suppose it can be?’

“ ‘We couldn’t tell, Stepán Savélyitch. Vagrants perhaps.’

“ ‘Vagrants,⁠ ⁠… do you say!⁠ ⁠… and you have not the sense to take thought for your comrades.⁠ ⁠… It is I who must think for all.⁠ ⁠… Haven’t you heard what the isprávnik said the other day about the Saghálinians⁠—that they had been seen not very far off.⁠ ⁠… I wonder if the fools could have built that fire?’

“ ‘Very likely, Stepán Savélyitch. It would not surprise us if it were they.’

“ ‘If that is so, they had better look out. The idea of doing such a thing as that, the rascals! I wonder if the isprávnik is in town. If he has not returned, he will be here shortly. When he sees their fire, he will send out a company at once. What is to be done? I pity those rascals; their heads will surely pay the price for Saltánof’s. Get the boat ready, boys!’

“Meanwhile we sat by the fire, waiting for the chowder to be ready, for it was a long time since we had tasted any hot food. It was a dark night. Clouds rose seaward. It rained, and the forest moaned; but we were happy.⁠ ⁠… The dark night is a kind mother to the like of us vagrants. The cloudier the sky, the easier we feel.

“Suddenly one of the Tartars pricked up his ears. Those Tartars are ever on the alert, like cats. I listened also, and distinguished the sound of oars. Going up to the shore, I saw a boat stealthily creeping along under the steep bank. I could see the men who were rowing it, and the faint glimmer of a cockade on the hat of the one at the rudder.

“ ‘Boys, we are lost,’ I said; ‘it’s the isprávnik!’

“The men sprang to their feet, upsetting the kettles, and ran for the woods.⁠ ⁠… I bade the boys keep together, and wait for the result. Perhaps we might have a chance to get the upper hand if there were but few of them. We hid behind the trees, and waited to see what would come next. The boat landed, and five men stepped on shore. One of them exclaimed, laughing:⁠—

“ ‘Why did you run away, you fools? I know a word that will bring you all out; I must say you are brave fellows, to run like rabbits.’

“Dáryin, who was sitting beside me, under a cedar-tree, whispered:⁠—

“ ‘I say, Vasíli, this is strange! The isprávnik’s voice seems very familiar to me.’

“ ‘Keep still,’ I said; ‘let us see what they will do next. There are only a few of them.’

“One of the oarsmen, stepping out, asked:⁠—

“ ‘Here, don’t be afraid of us! Do you know anyone in this prison?’

“We held our breath and made no reply. ‘What the deuce is the matter with you?’ the same voice called out again. ‘Answer, do you know anyone in this prison? Perhaps you may recognize some of us.’

“I replied: ‘Whether we know each other or not is of no consequence. Perhaps it would be better had we never met, for we are not to be taken alive.’

“I meant this for a signal to my comrades to be ready.

“As to numbers we had the advantage, since there were but five of them; but we feared that as soon as they began to fire, the shots would be heard in town. However, it made no difference; we were determined not to be taken without a struggle.

“Again the old man spoke: ‘Boys,’ he said, ‘is it possible that none of you know Samárof?’

“Dáryin nudged me. ‘Sure enough, it is the superintendent of the N⁠⸺ prison! Your honor,’ he said, ‘do you remember Dáryin?’

“ ‘To be sure, I do; he used to be my stárosta in N⁠⸺. I think his name was Fedót.’

“ ‘That’s me, your honor. Come out, boys; this is our father.’

“Whereupon we all came forth.

“ ‘Can it be possible that your honor has come to arrest us? We can’t believe it.’

“ ‘I pitied you, for being such fools. How very clever, to build a fire directly opposite the town!’

“ ‘We were wet, your honor; it rained.’

“ ‘R-a-i-n-e-d! And yet you pretend to call yourselves vagrants. You’ll not melt. You may thank your stars that I came out on the porch to smoke my pipe before the isprávnik returned. If he had seen your fire, he would have found a dry place for you! you are not very shrewd, boys, even if you did get the better of Saltánof, rascals that you are! Now, make haste, put out the fire and get away from here, into the valley; you may build ten fires there if you like, you scoundrels!’

“So the old gentleman scolded, while we stood around him, listening smilingly. Finally he stopped, and said:⁠—

“ ‘Now, listen to what I have to tell you. I have brought you some bread and three bricks of tea, and all I ask of you is to remember old Samárof kindly; and if you are lucky enough to escape, one of you may chance to go to Tobólsk⁠—if so, put a candle before my patron saint in the cathedral. I shall probably die here⁠—it is my home, and, besides, I am getting old; but still I often think of my own country. Well, goodbye; and take another piece of advice⁠—divide yourselves into small parties. How many are there of you?’

“ ‘Eleven,’ we replied.

“ ‘Who could help calling you fools! Probably by this time they have heard all about you at Irkútsk, and yet you still travel in a body!’

“After the old gentleman got into the boat and left us, we moved farther away into the valley, boiled our tea, made the chowder, and, taking the old man’s advice, we divided the provisions and separated.

“Dáryin and I kept together, Makárof went with the Circassians, the Tartar joined the two vagrants, and the remaining three formed another party. From this time forth we never met again. I do not know whether my former comrades are dead or alive. I have heard that the Tartar was sent here, but I don’t know whether it is true.

“That same night, just before dawn, Dáryin and I crept past Nikoláevsk. Only one dog barked, from a house in the outskirts.

“By sunrise, having travelled ten versts through the woods, we drew near the road, and, hearing the jingling of a bell, crouched behind the bushes, and saw the isprávnik driven by in a post-cart. He was wrapped in a greatcoat, and was dozing. Dáryin and I made the sign of the cross. What a mercy that he was out of town the previous night! He may have gone out in pursuit of us.”

VIII

The fire on the hearth had died out; but the yourt was still as warm as an oven. The ice on the windows was melting, and we came to the conclusion that it must be growing warmer outside, for in severe frosts the ice does not melt even from the inside, no matter how warm the yourt may be. Hence we did not replenish the fire, and I went out to close the chimney.

I found that the fog had disappeared and the air had grown softer. In the north, over the brow of the dark, heavily wooded hills, rose faint, fleecy clouds, hurrying swiftly across the sky. One might imagine an invisible giant gently sighing in the dark, cold night; his broad chest pouring forth its steaming breath, to be wafted across the sky and vanish at last in the blue ether. There was a faint playing of the Northern Lights.

Yielding to its melancholy witchery, I stood pensively upon the roof, watching the ever changing rays. The night showed forth in all its cold and dreary beauty. Overhead, the stars were glimmering, while the snowy shroud below gradually faded away in the dim distance. The forest looked like a long black comb, and the distant hills took on a pale blue tinge. This cold and silent picture filled my soul with a gentle sadness, and through the air, in soft vibrations, the words, “Far! so far!” seemed echoing in a minor chord.

When I returned into the hut, I could tell by the steady, regular breathing of the vagrant that he was asleep. I also tried to sleep, but could not, owing to the effect his exciting tale had produced upon me. At times, when sleep nearly overtook me, it would seem as if he purposely tossed and rolled, softly muttering in his sleep. His deep chest-tones dispelled my drowsiness, and in my fevered imagination arose the panorama of his Odyssey. Then, again, forgetting where I was, it seemed as though the boughs of the larch and the cedar waved overhead. I fancied myself gazing from a high cliff, and saw, in the ravine below, the white houses of the outposts, over which a mountain-eagle soared majestically. In fancy I wandered farther and farther from the hopeless gloom of my small yourt. A fresh breeze seemed to fan my brow, and in my ears echoed the faint murmur of the ocean. The sun was setting, and in the gathering darkness my boat rocked gently on the rippling straits. I was deeply excited by the story of the young vagrant.

What an impression this vagrant epic must make when told in the stifling atmosphere that fills the four walls of convict prison barracks. And what was there in this story, I asked myself, that made such an impression upon my whole being? It was not the difficulties overcome on the way, nor the sufferings endured, nor that “vagrant homesickness”; but it was the incomparable poetry of liberty. And why was it that I heard only the voice of freedom as expressed in the measureless expanse, in the woods, in the steppes, and in the ocean? If this so strongly appealed to me, how much more so to the vagrant, who had already tasted the poisoned cup of unsatisfied desire. He was still sleeping, while my excited imagination allowed me no rest. I cared nothing for the cause of his banishment, for his past life, or for his deeds since he ceased “to obey his parents.” In him I saw only a young life, full of strength, of energy, and of a passionate longing for freedom.⁠ ⁠… Whither, yes, whither?

In his scarce audible mutterings, I fancied I heard sighs. I forgot myself under the pressure of the unsolved question, and gloomy dreams hovered around me.⁠ ⁠… The evening sun had set, and all the sad, infinite world seemed plunged in gloomy thought. Heavy clouds hung overhead.⁠ ⁠… The horizon alone was illuminated by the last vestiges of the dying day, and somewhere, far, far away, under the shadow of the purple hills, flickered a light. What was it?⁠—the familiar flame on the hearth of the long-forsaken home, or a will-o’-the-wisp dancing over the darkness of a grave?

It was very late when at last I fell asleep.

IX

When I awoke it must have been about eleven o’clock. The rays of the sun streamed through the windows of the yourt, playing on the floor. The vagrant had departed. Having to go to the village on business, I harnessed my horse, and started in my little sleigh along the village street. It was a bright and comparatively warm day. The mercury may have stood at twenty degrees.16 But⁠ ⁠… everything in this world is relative; such weather as is usual in midwinter in other lands is regarded here as the first sign of spring. The clouds of smoke rising simultaneously from the chimneys did not remain stationary in immovable columns, as they do in severe frosts, but inclined to the west, and an east wind was blowing, bringing with it a warmer breeze from the Pacific Ocean.

The village was settled principally by banished Tartars, and, as it was a holiday, the streets presented an animated appearance. Gates creaked, sleighs issued forth, and tipsy riders were a common sight. The worshippers of Muhammad are not rigid observers of the laws of the Koran, and both riders and pedestrians at times described the most fantastic curves. Occasionally a startled horse would make a sudden leap, upsetting the sleigh, and tearing along the village street, while the owner, clinging obstinately to the reins, was dragged behind, raising a perfect cloud of snow. It might happen to anyone to lose control over a horse, or to fall out of the sleigh, but even in such critical circumstances it was considered a disgrace for a “true Tartar” to loose his hold of the reins.

A moment later, the straight, arrow-like street assumed an unusually bustling appearance. The riders kept close to the fences, the pedestrians fell back, and the gayly dressed women in their bright chadrys17 hurried their children into the houses. Interested spectators crowded the streets, and all eyes were turned in one direction. At the further end of the narrow street a group of riders appeared, and for the first time I saw the races, of which both Tartars and Yakúts are so fond. There were about five riders, galloping like the wind; and, as the group approached, I saw Bagyláï’s gray horse. With every stroke of his hoofs he increased the distance that separated him from the rest. A moment later, they had all passed me like a whirlwind.

The eyes of the Tartars glistened with fiendish excitement. As they rode by, they shouted, waving their hands and leaning backwards, sitting well back on their horses. Vasíli alone rode Russian fashion, bending closely to his horse’s neck, and occasionally giving a short, shrill whistle, that sounded like the lash of a whip. His gray horse was straining every nerve, cutting the air like a flying bird.

The sympathy of the crowd was, as usual, with the victor.

“Well done!” cried the delighted spectators; and the old horse-thieves, passionate lovers of such sport, bobbed up and down, clapping their hands on their knees, as they beat time to the galloping of the horses.

As Vasíli returned on his foam-flecked horse, he overtook me halfway up the street. His outstripped rivals were far behind.

The vagrant’s face looked pale, but his eyes glowed with excitement; it was evident that he had been drinking.

“I’m on a spree,” he shouted, waving his hat as he bowed.

“That’s no affair of mine.”

“Well, don’t get angry. I can drink and yet keep my wits about me. By the way, do not give up my saddlebags under any pretext whatsoever⁠—not even to me, if I should ask for them.⁠—You understand?”

“I understand,” I coolly replied. “Only, please don’t visit me when you are drunk.”

“You need have no fear; I shall not come,” he said, as he gave his horse a cut with the end of the rein. The horse snorted, reared, and sprang forward a few yards. Vasíli curbed him, exclaiming:⁠—

“Look at my horse! He is worth his weight in gold. I bet on him! Did you see him go? Now the Tartars will give me whatever I ask for him, without doubt, because they passionately adore a good horse.”

“Why do you sell him? What will you have to work with?”

“I can’t help it; it’s fate!”

Again he lashed the horse and curbed him in.

“To tell the truth, ’tis because I have met a comrade here; I will give up everything. Look, my dear fellow, do you see that Tartar on the roan horse, coming this way? Here!” he called out to the Tartar, “Akhmétka, come here!”

The roan horse, arching his neck and prancing, trotted up to my sleigh; the rider took off his hat and bowed, smiling. I looked at him with curiosity.

Akhmétka’s mischievous face was wreathed in a broad smile; his small eyes sparkled merrily, as he gazed on Vasíli with roguish familiarity, a glance that seemed to say to everyone, “We understand each other. I’m a rogue, to be sure, but a sharp one.” His interlocutor, looking at his face with its high cheekbones, its merry wrinkles about the eyes, the large, thin ears that stood out so comically, involuntarily smiled also. Then Akhmétka, concluding that matters were amicable, nodded his head with a satisfied look, as much as to say, “Now we understand each other.”

“A comrade,” he said, nodding towards Vasíli; “we tramped together.”

“Where do you live?” I inquired. “I never saw you before in the village.”

“I’ve come for my papers. I’ve been carrying wine to the goldmines.”18

I looked at Vasíli; he dropped his eyes and gathered up the reins. Then, raising his head, he gazed at me defiantly. His lips were tightly compressed, but the lower one trembled perceptibly.

“I will go with him into the forest! Why do you look at me so strangely? I’m a vagrant! a vagrant!”

He was already on the gallop even as he uttered the last words. For one moment a cloud of frosty dust was visible in the street, then nothing was to be seen or heard but the clatter of the horse’s hoofs.

A year later Akhmétka again returned to the settlement for the “papers,” but Vasíli was seen no more.