In this savage
mode of life he lost the count of time: he was already far in the Ural
Mountains before he again ventured to sleep beneath a roof. As he was
starting the next morning his hosts said, in answer to his inquiries
as to the road, "A little farther on you will find a guard-house,
where they will look at your papers and give you precise directions."
Again how narrow an escape! He turned from the road and crossed hills
and gorges, often up to the chin in snow, and made an immense curve
before taking up his march again.
[Illustration: A SAMARITAN OF THE STEPPES.]
One moonlight night, in the dead silence of the ice-bound winter, he
stood on the ridge of the mountain-chain and began to descend its
eastern slope. Still on and on, the way more dangerous than before,
for now there were large towns upon his route, which he could only
avoid by going greatly out of his way. One night in the woods he
completely lost his bearings; a tempest of wind and snow literally
whirled him around; his stock of bread was exhausted, and he fell upon
the earth powerless; there was a buzzing in his ears, a confusion in
his ideas; his senses forsook him, and but for spasms of cramp in his
stomach he had no consciousness left. Torpor was settling upon him
when a loud voice recalled him to himself: it was a trapper, who lived
hard by, going home with his booty.
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