Magnificent jets,
from springs of boiling water, shot up from some of those artesian
wells which Nature has bored in the very bed of the lake.
These jets rose to a great height and spread out in vapor,
which was illuminated by the solar rays, and almost immediately
condensed by the cold. This curious sight would have assuredly
amazed a tourist traveling in peaceful times on this Siberian sea.
At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was signaled
by the old boatman, between the high granite rocks of the shore.
On the right bank could be seen the little port of Livenitchnaia,
its church, and its few houses built on the bank. But the serious
thing was that the ice blocks from the East were already drifting
between the banks of the Angara, and consequently were descending
towards Irkutsk. However, their number was not yet great enough
to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold great enough
to increase their number.
The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped. The old boatman
wished to put into harbor for an hour, in order to make some repairs.
The trunks threatened to separate, and it was important to fasten them
more securely together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.
The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh fugitives
at Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft touched,
two passengers, issuing from a deserted house, ran as fast
as they could towards the beach.
Nadia seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the shore.
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