thickets; in the distance were the same mountains, which now, however,
had the appearance of two cliffs, one like to the other. And all these
snows were burning in the crimson glow so merrily and so brightly that
it seemed as though one could live in such a place for ever. The sun was
scarcely visible behind the dark-blue mountain, which only a practised
eye could distinguish from a thunder-cloud; but above the sun was a
blood-red streak to which my companion directed particular attention.

"I told you," he exclaimed, "that there would be dirty weather to-day!
We must make haste, or perhaps it will catch us on Mount Krestov.--Get
on!" he shouted to the drivers.

Chains were put under the wheels in place of drags, so that they should
not slide, the drivers took the horses by the reins, and the descent
began. On the right was a cliff, on the left a precipice, so deep that
an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom looked like a swallow's nest.
I shuddered, as the thought occurred to me that often in the depth of
night, on that very road, where two wagons could not pass, a courier
drives some ten times a year without climbing down from his rickety
vehicle. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the
other, an Ossete. The latter took out the leaders in good time and led
the shaft-horse by the reins, using every possible precaution--but
our heedless compatriot did not even climb down from his box! When I
remarked to him that he might put himself out a bit, at least in the
interests of my portmanteau, for which I had not the slightest desire to
clamber down into the abyss, he answered:

"Eh, master, with the help of Heaven we shall arrive as safe and sound
as the others; it's not our first time, you know."

And he was right. We might just as easily have failed to arrive at
all; but arrive we did, for all that. And if people would only reason a
little more they would be convinced that life is not worth taking such a
deal of trouble about.

Perhaps, however, you would like to know the conclusion of the story
of Bela? In the first place, this is not a novel, but a collection of
travelling-notes, and, consequently, I cannot make the staff-captain
tell the story sooner than he actually proceeded to tell it. Therefore,
you must wait a bit, or, if you like, turn over a few pages. Though I do
not advise you to do the latter, because the crossing of Mount Krestov
(or, as the erudite Gamba calls it, le mont St. Chr