long trot, perfectly regular, whether up or down hill.
The two other horses seemed to know no other pace than the gallop,
though they performed many an eccentric curvette as they went along.
The iemschik, however, never touched them, only urging them on
by startling cracks of his whip. But what epithets he lavished
on them, including the names of all the saints in the calendar,
when they behaved like docile and conscientious animals!
The string which served as reins would have had no influence
on the spirited beasts, but the words "na pravo," to the right,
"na levo," to the left, pronounced in a guttural tone,
were more effectual than either bridle or snaffle.

And what amiable expressions! "Go on, my doves!" the iemschik
would say. "Go on, pretty swallows! Fly, my little pigeons!
Hold up, my cousin on the left! Gee up, my little father
on the right!"

But when the pace slackened, what insulting expressions,
instantly understood by the sensitive animals!
"Go on, you wretched snail! Confound you, you slug!
I'll roast you alive, you tortoise, you!"

Whether or not it was from this way of driving, which requires
the iemschiks to possess strong throats more than muscular arms,
the tarantass flew along at a rate of from twelve to fourteen
miles an hour. Michael Strogoff was accustomed both to the sort
of vehicle and the mode of traveling. Neither jerks nor jolts
incommoded him. He knew that a Russian driver never even tries
to avoid either stones, ruts, bogs, fallen trees, or trenches,
which may happen to be in the road. He was used to all that.