bushes is a big post — an oaken, ragged-looking post, that is where it is."
Vasily Andreich turned his horse back, and drove past the village.
"You ought to pass the night here, I tell you!" bawled Isai after him. But Vasily Andreich made him no answer, but urged on the horse. Five miles of level road, two of which were protected by woods, did not seem to be much of a business to traverse, especially as the wind had died down somewhat, and the snow had ceased to fall.
Proceeding back again down the street along a roughish piece of road, darkened here and there by freshly fallen horse-dung, and passing the courtyard where the clothes were hung out (the white shirt had by this time wrenched itself loose, and was hanging by one frost-stiff arm only), they once more drove along by the fearfully moaning plantations of vines, and came out again into the open. Here the snowstorm, so far from subsiding, seemed to blow with greater fury than ever. The whole road was covered with snow, and it was only the tops of the posts that told them they had not lost their way. But it was difficult to distinguish the posts themselves very far ahead, as the wind was blowing full against them.
Vasily Andreich wrinkled his brow, bent his head, and kept a sharp look out for the posts; but it was best, he thought, to let the horse go his own way, and trust to him. And indeed the horse did not go astray, but went alternately, now to the right and now to the left, along the winding road, which it recognised beneath its feet. Consequently, despite the fact that
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