kept rising unexpectedly. Then a shepherd drove a flock through the
underwood: a brown cow with short, pointed horns broke noisily through
the bushes and stood stockstill at the edge of the clearing, her big,
dark eyes fixed on the dog running before me. A slight breeze brought
the delicate, pungent smell of burnt wood. A white smoke in the
distance crept in eddying rings over the pale, blue forest air, showing
that a peasant was charcoal-burning for a glass-factory or for a
foundry. The further we went on, the darker and stiller it became all
round us. In the pine-forest it is always still; there is only, high
overhead, a sort of prolonged murmur and subdued roar in the tree-tops.
One goes on and on, and this eternal murmur of the forest never ceases,
and the heart gradually begins to sink, and a man longs to come out
quickly into the open, into the daylight; he longs to draw a full
breath again, and is oppressed by the fragrant damp and decay....

For about twelve miles we drove on at a walking pace, rarely at a trot.
I wanted to get by daylight to Svyatoe, a hamlet lying in the very
heart of the forest. Twice we met peasants with stripped bark or long
logs on carts.

'Is it far to Svyatoe?' I asked one of them.

'No, not far.'

'How far?'

'It'll be a little over two miles.'

Another hour and a half went by. We were still driving on and on. Again
we heard the creak of a laden cart. A peasant was walking beside it.