We made our way through the thickly wooded slopes of the valley, now and again being almost forced into the boiling torrent in our efforts to avoid the entanglement of the underwood. Gradually the valley opened out, and towards evening we wended our way down rich pastures, shadowed by noble clumps of beech and pine.
Arriving at the first houses, my fears about the Tartar's demeanour were set at rest, his request for direction to the Starshina's residence, if not conciliatory in tone, being shorn of any expressions indicative of his real feelings. By the time we had reached this worthy's house at Mujal it was quite dark. We battered at his door, and, after some delay, rendered exciting by the fierce onslaught of sundry dogs, he appeared and accorded us a ceremonial welcome. Attired in his best clothes, and with an absurd chain, much like an English mayor's, festooned around him, he led the way to the guest-house.
The inky night was made brilliant with eight flaring torches of split pine. In the long procession figured a steaming samovar, and we noted with satisfaction a large basket, within which the eye of faith and hunger detected many good and nutritious substances. As we proceeded, sundry fleet-footed youths were shed from the caravan into the darkness. These youths, we subsequently discovered, had been despatched in quest of Russian bread, fresh butter, and milk—dainties
