The evening was now approaching, and Linsk, with his party, being pressed to spend the night at the cave, cheerfully accepted the request. A fire was soon kindled, a haunch of fat bear’s meat was roasted, and the company sat down to their meal. There was for a time a good deal of hilarity; for, even in comfortless situations, a sense of deliverance from peril breaks into the heart, scattering with its brief sunshine the gloom that is around. So it was with the hunters, in the bosom of that dark cavern, and in that scene and season of winter; the laugh, the joke, and the story passed from one to the other. Even the stern and stony brow of the stranger relaxed at some of the droll remarks and odd phrases of Linsk, and unconsciously he became interested in the passing scene. When Linsk had done ample justice to the meal, he hitched back a little from the circle which sat around, and, wiping his greasy lips and hands, using the sleeve of his wolf-skin coat instead of a pocket-handkerchief, he said, “Well, master Alexis, this jump of yours, from the top of a mountain into the middle of a valley, beats all the capers of that kind which I ever heard of; but as to your going eight feet into the snow, that’s nothing. I once knew a fellow who spent a winter at Kamschatka, and he says that the snow falls there to such a depth as sometimes to cover up houses. He told one thumping story of what happened to himself.” “What was it?--tell it,” was uttered by several voices. Thus invited, Linsk proceeded to relate the following tale. “The man I spoke of was one of your short, tough little runts, and very like a weasel--hard to catch, hard to kill, and worth very little when you’ve got him. I forget now what it was led him off to such a wild place as Kamschatka; but I believe it was because he was of a restless make, and so, being always moving, he finally got to the end of the world. Nor was this restlessness his only peculiarity--he was one of those people to whom something odd is always happening; for you know that there are folks to whom ill-luck sticks just as natural as a burr to a bear’s jacket. “Well, Nurly Nutt--for that was the young fellow’s name--found himself one winter at Kamschatka. It was far to the north, where the sun goes down for six months at a time, and brandy freezes as hard as a stone. However, the people find a way to melt the brandy; and, by the rays of the moon, or the northern lights, which make it almost as light as day, they have their frolics, as well as other people.