it was now autumn and the roads were slippery
with ice. Besides, the mountain is about two
versts[2] in length.

[1] A retail shop and tavern combined.

[2] A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet.

There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and
a few Ossetes. One of the latter shouldered my
portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with
one voice, proceeded to help the oxen.

Following mine there came another cart, which
I was surprised to see four oxen pulling with the
greatest ease, notwithstanding that it was loaded
to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking
a little, silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was
wearing a shaggy Circassian cap and an officer's
overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to
be about fifty years of age. The swarthiness of
his complexion showed that his face had long
been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and
the premature greyness of his moustache was
out of keeping with his firm gait and robust
appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He
silently returned my greeting and emitted an
immense cloud of smoke.

"We are fellow-travellers, it appears."