not to be thought of. He soon found himself
on the high-road to Irbit, crowded with an innumerable mass of
sledges, going or returning to the fair. It is the season of gain and
good humor, and the people show it by unbounded gaiety. Piotrowski
took courage, returned the salutations of the passers-by--for how
could he be distinguished in such a crowd? The gates of Irbit were
reached on the third day. "Halt, and shew your passport," cried an
official; but added in a whisper--"Give me twenty copecks, and pass
quickly." The demand was willingly gratified, and with some difficulty
he procured a night's lodging, lying on the floor amidst a crowd of
peasants, who had previously supped on radish-soup, dried fish,
oatmeal gruel, with oil and pickled cabbage.

Up at daybreak, he took care to make the orthodox salutations, and
passing rapidly through the crowded town, he walked out of the
opposite gate, for, henceforwards, his scanty funds demanded that the
journey should be made on foot. In the midst of a heavily falling
snow, he managed to keep the track, avoiding the villages, and, when
hungry, drawing a piece of frozen bread from his bag. At nightfall, he
buried himself in the forest, hollowed a deep hole in the snow, and
found a hard but warm bed, where he gained the repose he so greatly
needed. Another hard day, with a dry cutting wind, forced him to ask
for shelter at night in a cottage, which was granted without
hesitation. He described himself as a workman, going to the
iron-foundries at Bohotole, on the Ural Mountains. Whilst the supper
was preparing, he dried his clothes, and stretched himself on a bench
with inexpressible satisfaction. He fancied he had neglected no
precautions; his prayers and salutations had been made; and yet
suspicion was awakened, as it appeared, by the sight of his three
shirts, which no peasant possesses. Three men entered, and roughly
shook him from sleep, demanding his passport.

"By what right do you ask for it? Are you police?"

"No; but we are inhabitants of the village."

"And can you enter houses, and ask for passports! Who can say whether
you do not mean to rob me of my papers? But my answer is ready. I am
Lavrenti Kouzmine, going to Bohotole; and it is not the first time I
have passed through the country."

He then entered into details of the road and the fair at Irbit, ending
by showing his permission to pass, which, as it bore a stamp,
satisfied these ignorant men.

"Forgive