Presently the rain changed to snow; the first snowstorm of the winter coming swiftly down upon them from the north. They were weather-bound for a few days, so blinding and baffling were the thickly-falling flakes. Then hunger set in; such hunger and starvation as had never yet befallen them, for no provisions were laid up for the exiles, and the peasants from whom they bought their food could no more go to them than they could march along the road. The convoy captain allowed them a scanty share of the soldiers' rations, just sufficient to keep them alive, but he could do no more for them. Without food or fire, in clothes that dried upon their bodies, huddled together, they passed the miserable days and nights. At last the snowstorm ceased, and a sharp frost set in. A number of peasants came with rough sledges, judging rightly that all the women and children, and some of the convicts, would be unable to walk the next stage. The winter had come upon them so early and so unexpectedly that even the guards were not prepared. The convicts were in the rags of their summer clothing, and barefoot, but at the next forwarding prison winter garments would be given out. But to the half-famished men and women the next few days were bitter, under the gloomy sky, with an icy wind whistling around them. In dead silence, except for the jingling of their chains, the procession crawled slowly and weariedly across the snowclad plains. The prisoners kept closely together, to avoid being frozen to death, but not a word did one man say to his fellow. In the telegas, and the sledges also, the women were speechless, in a half stupor; and only now and then the children uttered a cry at the death-like apathy of those around them. Michael and Sergius kept as near as they could to the telega where Tatiania was crouching, with little Clava on her lap. But they too were appalled at this universal stupefaction, and could not speak of it to one another. They reached at last the forwarding prison, where winter stores were kept. They were to rest there for a few days to recover strength, for several of the older convicts had broken down on the way. It was a great relief to them all. Tatiania, who had seemed near unto death, revived a little. "Khariton," she said one night, as she lay beside him on the nari, "you know that little Clava and I are going to leave you soon?" "Yes, dear wife," he answered. "And you will not pray to our Lord to keep us back?" she said. "No," he replied, with a sharp pain at his heart. "It's time for me to give up what Alexis trusted me with," she whispered in his ear. "I've kept it safe; nobody has suspected. But if I die on the road, they'll find it, and you'll lose most of it—perhaps all." "But who will take care of it for us?" he asked. "Matron is too old; who could expect her to live to the end? We have still many weeks to travel, and all the women are failing."