steppes. I fell into a moody train of thought, for to me garrison life
offered few attractions. I tried to picture my future chief, Captain
Mironoff. I imagined a severe, morose old man, knowing nothing outside
of the service, ready to arrest me for the least slip. Dusk was
falling; we were advancing rapidly.

"How far is it from here to the fortress?" said I to the coachman.

"You can see it now," he answered.

I looked on all sides, expecting to see high bastions, a wall, and
a ditch. I saw nothing but a little village surrounded by a wooden
palisade. On one side stood some hay-stacks half covered with snow;
on the other a wind-mill, leaning to one side; the wings of the mill,
made of the heavy bark of the linden tree, hung idle.

"Where is the fortress?" I asked, astonished.

"There it is," said the coachman, pointing to the village which we had
just entered. I saw near the gate an old iron cannon. The streets
were narrow and winding, and nearly all the huts were thatched with
straw. I ordered the coachman to drive to the Commandant's, and almost
immediately my kibitka stopped before a wooden house built on an
eminence near the church, which was also of wood. From the front door
I entered the waiting-room. An old pensioner, seated on a table, was
sewing a blue piece on the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to
announce me.

"Enter, my good sir," said he, "our people are at home."