Hours seemed to pass like this, however. With unerring knowledge Tatiana threaded path after path, never slackening to consult the large numerals painted on white boards that indicate the way. She knew it by heart. At last the trees began to thin. Long since she had passed from her own land into her brother’s, and _verst_ had succeeded _verst_ without a break. If it was necessary to kill the horses, she would unhesitatingly do so, dearly as she loved them, for her one idea was Piotr, Basil’s beloved boy, and she must be there before some rash move on Laurence’s part could arouse the _mujiks_ and bring about much trouble. The red awakening of a new day had but just flamed up in the east when she glimpsed from afar the first _isba_ of the village; here and there a patch of brilliant color caught her keen gaze, and she remembered that this was Sunday, when, winter or summer, the folk don their finest costumes to go to early church. And then of a sudden she saw a crowd of people surrounding something she could not quite distinguish. There were arms raised, thrashing the icy air, and as she drew nearer, the sound of angry voices mounting to a dull roar that penetrated even the heavy furs of her head-covering. Leaping to her feet, Tatiana lashed her horses savagely, while Fadéi, grasping her knees, steadied her in an agony of fear lest she should be dragged over the apron-bar and thrown headlong beneath the flying hoofs of the animals, who, quite unaccustomed to such severe treatment, were now running away for fair. Cries and imprecations greeted the reckless dash through the crowd, but little did Tatiana heed whom she upset, for she had caught sight of another sleigh pitching and tossing in the most amazing fashion right ahead of hers in the middle of the road, its horses struggling with a cluster of vociferating men hanging to their heads, its driver prone on his face in the snow, blood trickling from his forehead, and huddled amid fur robes and rugs two women clinging to each other. “Burn the coward! Burn the coward! Drag her out! She’s a bad woman, an evil witch!” yelled the mob, milling round the sleigh. “She’s running away from the Prince! She’s deserting Prince Piotr! The villain! Enough of her! Into the oven with her!” clamored the women in their red petticoats and mitre-like coiffures broidered with gold and silver and little pearls. Ghastly white, her _bashlik_ fallen from head and face, Laurence, absolutely maddened with terror, clung to Célèste, expecting the end at every second. The little maid held her tight, rocking in unison with every plunge of the horses, every pitching of the sleigh, but still game. Tatiana pulled up with a violent jerk--reinforced by Fadéi, who had seized the loops of the reins from behind--and, tearing the fur mask from her face, she jumped to the hard, frozen ground.