Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after the heat
of the day. At midnight the steppe was profoundly dark.
The sound of the horses's hoofs alone was heard on the road, except when,
every now and then, its master spoke a few encouraging words.
In such darkness as this great care was necessary lest he should
leave the road, bordered by pools and streams, tributaries of
the Obi. Michael therefore advanced as quickly as was consistent
with safety. He trusted no less to the excellence of his eyes,
which penetrated the gloom, than to the well-proved sagacity
of his horse.
Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction of the road,
he heard a confused murmuring sound from the west. It was like
the noise of horses' hoofs at some distance on the parched ground.
Michael listened attentively, putting his ear to the ground.
"It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from Omsk,"
he said to himself. "They are marching very quickly,
for the noise is increasing. Are they Russians or Tartars?"
Michael again listened. "Yes," said he, "they are at a sharp trot.
My horse cannot outstrip them. If they are Russians I will join them;
if Tartars I must avoid them. But how? Where can I hide in this steppe?"
He gave a look around, and, through the darkness, discovered a
confused mass at a hundred paces before him on the left of the road.
"There is a copse!" he exclaimed. "To take refuge there is
to run the risk of being caught, if they are in search of me;
but I have no choice.
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