was trembling. He tried to wrap himself up and lie down as before, but this he was no longer able to do. He could not settle down in one place. He wanted to stand up and do something, so as to choke off the feeling of terror that was gripping him, and against which he felt himself helpless. Again he got out his cigarettes and matches, but there were only three matches left, and all of them of the worst. All three fizzled out without lighting anything.
"Mischief take you, accursed one!" he cried—though whom he was cursing he would have been hard put to it to say—as he threw away the crushed cigarette. He would have liked to have crushed the match-box also, but he went no further than the wish, and stuck it back into his pocket again. And now such a restlessness came over him that he could no longer stop in one place. So he got out of the sledge, and standing with his back to the wind, began to gird himself up again tightly and low down.
"To go on lying down here means certain death. Up in the saddle and quick march!" was the idea that suddenly came into his head." Get once on the nag's back and he won't stop for anything. As for him "(it was Nikita he meant now), "it doesn't much matter whether he dies or not. What sort of a life does he live—why, he wouldn't regret losing it one bit, I'm sure. But as for me, I really have got something to live for, thank God! …"
And leading forth the horse he threw the reins over its neck, and would have leaped on its back, but missed his footing. Then he stood on the sledge and would have mounted from there, but the sledge
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