Won't you come in, brother, he said, and rest yourself and take a cup of tea?
I accepted the invitation with pleasure, for I had not broken my fast. We entered the cabin together. It was very small, and on a brick hearth was sitting a woman, probably the exile's wife. My host asked me to take a seat and began to prepare the samovar, an appliance which is found in every Siberian cottage. As we drank we talked.
Is it a long time since you left the gang? asked my entertainer.
Quite lately. I belonged to convoy number four.
You have turned vagabond then, brother?
Yes, what is the good of staying here?
You are quite right, returned the exile bitterly. The country is abominable. I shall do the same thing myself in a month or two. Which way do you go by the Angara road?
I gave him an itinerary, though not exactly the one I meant to follow.
I know all these places well, observed my host. But do you know you will have to be prudent. The authorities hereabouts are very vicious just now. They arrest every wayfarer they see. You must look out, my brother, or they will arrest you.
What would you advise me to do, then, I asked, greatly alarmed at this news.
I will tell you, brother; listen!
And then he gave me very valuable information; described the villages through or near which I should have to pass, indicating at the same time those that were dangerous and the footpaths by which I might avoid them. He gave me the names and described the dwellings of the peasants with whom I might lodge, and, in a word, told me everything which it imported a wandering outlaw to know.
But why, I asked, are the police so active just now? I thought this road was one of the safest for vagabonds in the whole country.
God knows. Perhaps they have found a body somewhere and are looking for the murderer.
I made no remark, but I thought it was much more likely that they had discovered my flight and were looking for me. And so it proved.
After finishing the tea we talked a little longer, and as I took my leave I thanked my host warmly for his hospitality and information.
When I reached the last village before that at which lived my friend, I was quite overcome with fatigue, and faint with hunger and cold; but I counted on a long and quiet rest in the cottage of a peasant woman whose address had been given me by the friendly exile. It was at the extremity of the village, and to get thither I had to pass the headquarters of the communal authorities. In the light of the exile's warning, and my own fears, this seemed a sufficiently dangerous enterprise. Albeit I put on an air of indifference and took care not to increase my pace, yet I could not avoid an occasional backward glance to see if I was being followed. No one, however, seemed to notice me, and I reached my destination without receiving any unpleasant attentions. The peasant woman welcomed me kindly, if not very effusively. But she was a dear good soul, gave me of her best, and let me lie on a bench and pass the night in her house.
About two hours before sunrise my hostess came into the kitchen and began to busy herself with preparations for breakfast. But I remained stretched on my bench; the cottage was warm. I felt very comfortable, and I saw no reason for hurry. The day was before me, and I had not far to go. So I turned round on my wooden couch and was just sinking into a second slumber when I heard the sound of bells, such as post-chaises and mail-carts in Russia invariably carry.
Bells! I cried, starting up. Does a mail-coach run on this road?
No, answered the peasant, we have no mail-coach here; it is probably a private carriage which is passing through the village.
Meanwhile the bells came nearer; then the sound suddenly ceased, as it seemed not far from the cottage. I did not like this at all. What could it mean?
Would you mind going to see what or whose carriage it is? I said. She went, and as the door closed behind her, I jumped off my bench and put on my clothes.
In a few minutes she was back with the news that the carriage belonged to the gendarmes, and that they were questioning the starosta and the clerk.
The gendarmes! I exclaimed, who says so where are they from?
From Irkoutsk. It is the coachman himself who told me. He thinks they are after a political runaway.
In that case, I had better be going, I said, laughing. They may perhaps think I am the man. Now look here if they ask you any questions, know nothing. If you do it may be worse for you; they may make you pay a fine. Good-by (putting the last of my kopecks on the table).
Good-by, answered my hostess; don't be uneasy. I shall not say a word. She was a worthy woman, and a friend in need, that old peasant.
I went out. It was still dark, and I might creep through the village without being seen. The last of the houses passed, I ran at the top of my speed, for I felt sure that the pursuers were at my heels, and the possibility of being retaken enraged me almost past endurance. I had been denounced shortly after leaving the settlement, of that there could be no doubt. But how had the police managed to trace me so soon? I had been very careful, neglected no conceivable precaution, given misleading answers to all who questioned me about my past movements and future plans. I had made long detours to avoid the larger villages, and during the latter part of my journey put up only with the most trusted friends of vagabond wanderers. Yet the gendarmes had followed me step by step to my very last resting-place, and but for the friendly warning of the bells I should certainly have been recaptured, for I could not have left the village by daylight without being seen. Even now I was in imminent danger; my safety absolutely depended on my reaching my friend's house at once, and lying a long time in hiding. Though I had never been there, I knew the place so well by description its situation and appearance were so vividly impressed on my mind that I could find it, even in the dark, without asking a question. It was only about seven miles from the village I had just left. But how could I get thither unperceived? For if I was seen by a single person entering my friend's house, it might be the ruin of us both. Something must be decided on the instant. Day was dawning, the gendarmes were behind me, and by the barking of the dogs I reckoned that the village where dwelt my friend could not be more than two miles away. I looked round. On one side of the road were open fields; on the other thick brushwood grew. As yet, I had not met a soul, nobody could tell the gendarmes in which direction I had gone but it was now no longer dark, and if I went on, I might encounter a peasant or a wayfarer any moment. Only one thing could be done; I must hide somewhere even at the risk of being frozen stiff and remain hidden until sundown, when I might perchance gain my friend's house unperceived. Among the bushes! Yes, that was the place, I could lie perdu there all day. But just as I was about to put this plan into execution, another thought came to trouble me. How about my footsteps? Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the police could follow me to my hiding-place as easily as a hound tracks a deer to its lair. And then I bethought me of an ingenious artifice, about which I had read in some romance. Turning my face to the road I walked backward toward the bushes, taking care at every step to make a distinct impression on the snow. It was now quite daylight, and a little way off I could see two summer cabins of the Buriats in winter always empty. Thither I went, always backward, and entering one of the cabins remained there the whole day and far into the night. When I thought all the peasants would be indoors, I stole quietly out, and going stealthily and with many precautions to my friend's house, knocked in fear and misgiving at his door.