observing his sensations he noticed that he was beginning to shiver,
without knowing whether it was from cold or from fear. He tried to wrap
himself up and lie down as before, but could no longer do so. He could
not stay in one position. He wanted to get up, to do something to master
the gathering fear that was rising in him and against which he felt
himself powerless. He again got out his cigarettes and matches, but only
three matches were left and they were bad ones. The phosphorus rubbed
off them all without lighting.

'The devil take you! Damned thing! Curse you!' he muttered, not knowing
whom or what he was cursing, and he flung away the crushed cigarette.
He was about to throw away the matchbox too, but checked the movement of
his hand and put the box in his pocket instead. He was seized with such
unrest that he could no longer remain in one spot. He climbed out of the
sledge and standing with his back to the wind began to shift his belt
again, fastening it lower down in the waist and tightening it.

'What's the use of lying and waiting for death? Better mount the horse
and get away!' The thought suddenly occurred to him. 'The horse will
move when he has someone on his back. As for him,' he thought of
Nikita--'it's all the same to him whether he lives or dies. What is his
life worth? He won't grudge his life, but I have something to live for,
thank God.'

He untied the horse, threw the reins over his neck and tried to mount,
but his coats and boots were so heavy that he failed. Then he clambered
up in the sledge and tried to mount from there, but the sledge tilted
under his weight, and he failed again. At last he drew Mukhorty nearer
to the sledge, cautiously balanced on one side of it, and managed to
lie on his stomach across the horse's back. After lying like that for a