many years Petrowitsch had not dressed himself so rapidly as
today--usually his dressing, like everything he did, was a work of
time, on which he could always spend a good hour--today he was ready in
a few minutes. He put on his fur cloak--and he had the finest fur in
the country; Petrowitsch had not been so long in Russia for nothing.
His old housekeeper, who had seen him so short a time before in his
dressing gown, looked at him in amazement, but she never ventured to
address him, unless he first spoke to her. Petrowitsch, stepping out
stoutly and carrying his goldheaded stick, with its strong sharp point,
went through the village, and then proceeded up the hill. No human
being was on the pathway, not a single soul looked out of the
window--so there was no one to wonder why the old man had left his own
house in such dreadful weather, and at so unusual an hour. Bueble,
however, barked loud enough to supply this deficiency, as if saying,
"My master is going to a house--to a house--where no one would believe
he was really going. I could not have believed it myself." Bueble barked
this out to a certain crow, who was perched contemplatively on a hedge,
gazing, in deep thought, at the melting snow; Bueble soon barked for his
own behoof only, and the deeper the snow became, the higher Bueble
jumped, making various unnecessary scurries on his own account, up the
hill and down again, and then he looked at his master, as if to say,
"No living creature understands you and me, except ourselves--we know
each other pretty well."

"I give up my peace for ever if I do it," said Petrowitsch to himself;
"but if I don't do it, I shall have no peace either, and so it is
better to earn some gratitude into the bargain; and he certainly is a
good, single hearted, honest man, just like his father. Yes, yes!"

These were Petrowitsch's reflections. He arrived in front of Lenz's
house. The door was locked; Bueble had trotted on before him, and was
standing on the door step, when at the same instant--Petrowitsch had
actually the latch of the door in his hand--he sank to the ground. He
was lying under a mass of snow.

"This is the result of taking charge of other people's affairs," was
his first thought as he fell. Soon he no longer had the power to think.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
BURIED ALIVE.

"Get a light, Lenz; get a light! Let us at least see our danger,
whatever it may be. You s