sometimes coaxing his poor beasts, who were suffering more from
the oppression of the air than the roughness of the roads.
Even the bells on the shafts could no longer rouse them,
and they stumbled every instant.

"At what time shall we reach the top of the ridge?" asked Michael
of the iemschik.

"At one o'clock in the morning if we ever get there at all,"
replied he, with a shake of his head.

"Why, my friend, this will not be your first storm in
the mountains, will it?"

"No, and pray God it may not be my last!"

"Are you afraid?"

"No, I'm not afraid, but I repeat that I think you were
wrong in starting."

"I should have been still more wrong had I stayed."

"Hold up, my pigeons!" cried the iemschik; it was his business to obey,
not to question.

Just then a distant noise was heard, shrill whistling
through the atmosphere, so calm a minute before.
By the light of a dazzling flash, almost immediately followed
by a tremendous clap of thunder, Michael could see huge pines