Fighting was going on not far off; for the occasional booming of guns and an almost incessant rattle of rifle-fire could be plainly heard until darkness set in when these sounds gradually ceased. Przasnysz is only twenty-two versts from Makow; and I began to suspect that the larger place was in the hands of the Germans. It is pronounced "Prer-zhast-nitz," as nearly as I can frame it: and I may say that, in the course of this narrative, I have followed the spelling of names as they appear on maps, when I could find them there: otherwise I have written them as they seem to be pronounced; hence I dare say I have fallen into some eccentricities in this matter, which, I hope, will be excused. Tired out, and far from well, I slept till late the next day, my breakfast being brought to bed to me by a woman of the house, the usual custom of the country. In the afternoon I rode out and took what I supposed was the road to Przasnysz; but the ground was still so deeply covered with snow that there were no beaten tracks visible. However, the firing which was still going on was a good guide, and after riding about eight versts I came on a line of trenches occupied by Russian riflemen. Two bullets came unpleasantly near me, and one actually went under my arm, tearing the breast of my coat. I had not realized that I was in full sight of the enemy; but I was not long in remedying that. I rode straight into a scarped ditch and dismounted. The position was not a safe or pleasant one; but there was no help for it. I had to remain there until dusk; and from time to time bullets fell close to me. I think the enemy could see part of the head of my horse, which was a guide to their aiming, and it was only the slope of the bank which saved me. There was an ammunition hand-cart, half full of packages of cartridges, in the ditch, but nobody came near it before nightfall. The riflemen continued their firing as long as they could see, and the enemy replied without intermission; apparently with small results on either side. There was big gun shooting as well; but the cannon were so well hidden that I could not locate them. Sometimes shells came screaming a few feet only above the trench, and burst just behind. One piece flew back and buried itself in the bank not more than a foot above the horse's back, and close enough to my head to make me wince. More often the shells burst high in the air, the Germans showing some very bad gunnery. The Russian soldiers, like soldiers and boys all the world over where snow is to be found, had amused themselves by making snow figures in rear of the trench, mostly those of the Emperors, Saints and Generals. A shot struck one of these and threw the well-beaten, frozen snow to an immense height in the air. The shell did not burst, a circumstance of frequent occurrence, which seemed to show that the fuses were badly made, or fitted badly to the projectile.