that it was possible to follow the flight of a gnat
by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed
the gorge, deep and black. Behind it and in
front of us rose the dark-blue summits of the
mountains, all trenched with furrows and covered
with layers of snow, and standing out against the
pale horizon, which still retained the last reflec-
tions of the evening glow. The stars twinkled
out in the dark sky, and in some strange way it
seemed to me that they were much higher than
in our own north country. On both sides of the
road bare, black rocks jutted out; here and there
shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; but
not a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that
dead sleep of nature it was cheering to hear the
snorting of the three tired post-horses and the
irregular tinkling of the Russian bell.[1]

[1] The bell on the duga, a wooden arch joining the
shafts of a Russian conveyance over the horse's neck.


"We will have glorious weather to-morrow,"
I said.

The staff-captain answered not a word, but
pointed with his finger to a lofty mountain which
rose directly opposite us.

"What is it?" I asked.