rer, and the road goes straight
without winding."

"Velasco--I cannot walk! I cannot see! Everything whirls before me in a
mist Go! Leave me--I am falling--"

The older gypsey gave a despairing look over the snow-fields; they were
bare, and white, and glistening. The golden ball of the sun had begun to
climb slowly and the shafts had grown suddenly yellow. Across the icy
surface of the pond the wind whistled, lashing him in the face as with a
whip. The road was narrow and deserted. They were alone, and the form
of the younger boy lay against him unconscious, inert, half sunk in the
snow.

Velasco bent over his companion, chafing the hands, the cheeks; they were
cold like ice. He gave another despairing glance around; then he lifted
the form in his stiffening arms and carried it slowly, laboriously
forward, plodding each step; his head bent, his teeth grit together,
fighting his way.

The shafts lengthened across the sky; the domes grew larger and began to
glitter in the rays of the sunlight; by the side of the road houses
appeared, straggling at first, then nearer together. Suddenly, behind
them, came the tinkle of sleigh-bells, and the crunching of snow beaten
in by the weight of hoofs.

"Oi--Oi!"

Velasco stepped aside with his burden and stared at the sleigh as it
approached. It was a cart, roughly set on runners, drawn by a pair of
long-haired ponies; while fastened behind was a mare, and two wild-eyed
colts following.

The peasant in the seat was wrapped in sheep-skin and smoking a short,
thick pipe held between his teeth.

"Oi--Oi! Is that a corpse you hold there, Bradjaga?" he cried. His
voice was hardly distinguishable above the roaring of the gale.

"For the love of heaven," shouted Velasco, "Moujik, if you have a heart
under your sheep-skin, let me lay my comrade in the cart! He is faint
with the cold, benumbed. We have tramped all night in the snow. Are you
bound for the market at Belaia? Hey, stop! Moujik--stop!"

"Get in," said the peasant, "The ponies rear and dance as if Satan were
on their backs, and the mare is like one possessed! It is good to see
the sun. Get in, Bradjaga, and if the burden in your arms is no corpse
it will soon become one! The night has been hell. Bozhe moi! At the
first crossing to the left is a tea-house--Get along you brutes!--Pour
the vodka into his throat; it will sting him to life!"

The ponies dashed forward, the mare and the foals running