They had a long journey ahead of them, and not an easy route to follow, but as the days passed, and they came nearer and nearer to their goal, they became more and more eager.
They were passing over a desolate country, for they avoided the vicinity of large towns and cities.
"I wonder when we'll strike Siberia?" mused Tom one afternoon, as they sat on the outer deck, enjoying the air.
"At this rate of progress, very soon." answered the exile, after glancing at the map. "We should be at the foot of the Ural mountains in a few hours, and across them in the night. Then we will be in Siberia."
And he was right, for just as supper was being served, Ned, who had been making observations with a telescope, exclaimed:
"These must be the Urals!"
Mr. Petrofsky seized the glass.
"They are," he announced. "We will cross between Orsk and Iroitsk. A safe place. In the morning we will be in Siberia—the land of the exiles."
And they were, morning seeing them flying over a most desolate stretch of landscape. Onward they flew, covering verst after verst of loneliness.
