The pencil of an artist in quest of the picturesque would have found
nothing to reproduce in this monotonous landscape.

The Caucasus had been steaming on for almost two hours,
when the young Livonian, addressing herself to Michael, said,
"Are you going to Irkutsk, brother?"

"Yes, sister," answered the young man. "We are going the same way.
Consequently, where I go, you shall go."

"To-morrow, brother, you shall know why I left the shores of the Baltic
to go beyond the Ural Mountains."

"I ask you nothing, sister."

"You shall know all," replied the girl, with a faint smile.
"A sister should hide nothing from her brother. But I cannot
to-day. Fatigue and sorrow have broken me."

"Will you go and rest in your cabin?" asked Michael Strogoff.

"Yes--yes; and to-morrow--"

"Come then--"

He hesitated to finish his sentence, as if he had wished to end it
by the name of his companion, of which he was still ignorant.

"Nadia," said she, holding out her hand.