dying away and flaring up again; for an instant it lighted up a bit of
a sleeve, then a shaggy moustache and big copper-red nose, then
stern-looking, overhanging eyebrows. The postman pressed down the mail
bags with his hands, laid his sword on them and jumped into the cart.
The student clambered irresolutely in after him, and accidentally
touching him with his elbow, said timidly and politely: "I beg your
pardon."

The pipe went out. The postmaster came out of the post-office just as
he was, in his waistcoat and slippers; shrinking from the night dampness
and clearing his throat, he walked beside the cart and said:

"Well, God speed! Give my love to your mother, Mihailo. Give my love to
them all. And you, Ignatyev, mind you don't forget to give the parcel to
Bystretsov.... Off!"

The driver took the reins in one hand, blew his nose, and, arranging the
seat under himself, clicked to the horses.

"Give them my love," the postmaster repeated.

The big bell clanged something to the little bells, the little bells
gave it a friendly answer. The cart squeaked, moved. The big bell
lamented, the little bells laughed. Standing up in his seat the driver
lashed the restless tracehorse twice, and the cart rumbled with a hollow
sound along the dusty road. The little town was asleep. Houses and trees
stood black on each side of the broad street, and not a light was to be
seen. Narrow clouds stretched here and there over the star-spangled
sky, and where the dawn would soon be coming there was a narrow
crescent moon; but neither the stars, of which there were many, nor the