ther the moment for a dash had come. Zakhare's
sleigh, lost in the distance, was no more than a black spot on the white
snow, and as he drew farther away the ringing of the bells was fainter
and fainter; only the shouts and songs of the maskers rang through the
calm, clear night.

"On you go, my beauties!" cried Nicolas, shaking the reins and raising
his whip. The sleigh seemed to leap forward, but the sharp air that cut
their faces and the flying pace of the two outer horses alone gave them
any idea of the speed they were making. Nicolas glanced back at the
other two drivers; they were shouting and urging their shaft-horses with
cries and cracking of whips, so as not to be quite left behind;
Nicolas's middle horse, swinging steadily along under the shaft-bow,
kept up his regular pace, quite ready to go twice as fast the moment he
should be called upon.

They soon overtook the first troika, and after going down a slope they
came upon a wide cross-road running by the side of a meadow.

"Where are we, I wonder," thought Nicolas; "this must be the field and
slope by the river. No--I do not know where we are! This is all new and
unfamiliar to me! God only knows where we are! But no matter!" And
smacking his whip with a will, he went straight ahead. Zakhare held in
his beasts for an instant, and turned his face, all fringed with frost,
to look at Nicolas, who came flying onward.

"Steady there, sir!" cried the coachman, and leaning forward, with a
click of his tongue he urged his horses in their turn to their utmost
speed. For a few minutes the sleighs ran equal, but before long, in
spite of all Zakhare could do, Nicolas gained on him and at last flew
past him like a lightning flash; a cloud of fine snow, kicked up by the
horses, came showering down on the rival sleigh; the women squeaked,
and the two teams had a struggle for the precedence, their shadows
crossing and mingling on the snow.

Then Nicolas, moderating his speed, looked about him; before, behind,
and on each side of him stretched the fairy scene; a plain strewn with
stars and flooded with light.

"To the left, Zakhare says. Why to the left?" thought he. "We were going
to the Melukows'. But we are going where fate directs or as Heaven may
guide us. It is all very strange and most delightful, is it not?" he
said, turning to the others.

"Oh! look at his eyelashes and beard; they are quite white!" exclaimed
one of the sweet young men, with pencilled mustach