He started next morning, in a sleigh which he had purchased, and had caused to be well repaired, and took the road towards Orenburg. The country was flat and uninteresting; buried beneath a white shroud of sand, with a few trees scattered here and there, and at intervals a dreary-looking hut or two. The first post-station, for changing horses, was Smeveshlaevskaya, twenty versts (a verst is two-thirds of an English mile); the next, Bodrovsky, where Burnaby arrived a little after sunset. After drinking a few glasses of tea to fortify himself against the increasing cold (25° below zero, R.), he pushed forward in the hope of reaching Malomalisky, about twenty-six and a half versts, about nine p.m. But plunging into the heart of a terrible snowstorm, he and his driver were so blinded and beaten, and the horses so jaded by the swiftly forming snow-drifts, that he was compelled to give the order to return, and to pass the night at Bodrovsky. At daybreak the resolute guardsman was on his way. In the course of the day he fell in with General Kryjonovsky, the governor of the Orenburg district, who was bound for St. Petersburg; and a brief conversation with him showed that the authorities, as he had suspected, by no means approved of his expedition to Khiva. At one of the stations, the man assigned to him as driver had been married only the day before, and undertook his duties with obvious reluctance. His sole desire was to return as quickly as possible to his bride, and with this intent he lashed his horses until they kicked and jumped in the most furious contortions. The Major was thrown in the air, and caught again by the rebound; upset, righted, and upset again; gun, saddle-bags, cartridge-cases, and traveller, all simultaneously flying in the air. After a third of these rough experiences, the Major resolved to try the effect of a sharp application of his boot. “Why do you do that?” said the driver, pulling up his horse. “You hurt, you break my ribs.” “I only do to you what you do to me,” replied the Major. “You hurt, you break my ribs, and injure my property besides.” “Oh, sir of noble birth,” ejaculated the fellow, “it is not my fault. It is thine, oh moody one!” to his offside horse, accompanied by a crack from his whip. “It is thine, oh spoilt and cherished one!” to his other meagre and half-starved quadruped (whack!) “Oh, petted and caressed sons of animals” (whack, whack, whack!), “I will teach you to upset the gentleman.” * * * * *