Harry Blount, perfectly upright, stood, hat in hand, at some distance. His companion’s easy manners only increased his usual stiffness. At that moment the iemschik, who had succeeded in recapturing his two horses, reappeared. He cast a regretful glance at the magnificent animal lying on the ground, loth to leave it to the birds of prey, and then proceeded once more to harness his team. Michael acquainted him with the travelers’ situation, and his intention of loaning one of the horses. “As you please,” replied the iemschik. “Only, you know, two carriages instead of one.” “All right, my friend,” said Alcide, who understood the insinuation, “we will pay double.” “Then gee up, my turtle-doves!” cried the iemschik. Nadia again took her place in the tarantass. Michael and his companions followed on foot. It was three o’clock. The storm still swept with terrific violence across the defile. When the first streaks of daybreak appeared the tarantass had reached the telga, which was still conscientiously imbedded as far as the center of the wheel. Such being the case, it can be easily understood how a sudden jerk would separate the front from the hinder part. One of the horses was now harnessed by means of cords to the remains of the telga, the reporters took their place on the singular equipage, and the two carriages started off. They had now only to descend the Ural slopes, in doing which there was not the slightest difficulty. Six hours afterwards the two vehicles, the tarantass preceding the telga, arrived at Ekaterenburg, nothing worthy of note having happened in the descent. The first person the reporters perceived at the door of the post-house was their iemschik, who appeared to be waiting for them. This worthy Russian had a fine open countenance, and he smilingly approached the travelers, and, holding out his hand, in a quiet tone he demanded the usual “pour-boire.” This very cool request roused Blount’s ire to its highest pitch, and had not the iemschik prudently retreated, a straight-out blow of the fist, in true British boxing style, would have paid his claim of “na vodkou.” Alcide Jolivet, at this burst of anger, laughed as he had never laughed before. “But the poor devil is quite right!” he cried. “He is perfectly right, my dear fellow. It is not his fault if we did not know how to follow him!” Then drawing several copecks from his pocket, “Here my friend,” said he, handing them to the iemschik; “take them. If you have not earned them, that is not your fault.” This redoubled Mr. Blount’s irritation. He even began to speak of a lawsuit against the owner of the telga. “A lawsuit in Russia, my dear fellow!” cried Alcide. “Things must indeed change should it ever be brought to a conclusion! Did you never hear the story of the wet-nurse who claimed payment of twelve months’ nursing of some poor little infant?” “I never heard it,” replied Harry Blount.