There, too, sounds an occasional chord of yearning after freedom. They are prepared to endure, to make a firm stand, one and the other, in order to be allowed to write the name of Jesus ("Jhsus"). This is something for a beginning! The traveller records in his note-book that the Raskolniks are stupid and unhappy, and smell of leather. Still farther northwards. Upon the plains green with young wheat follow again expanses of snow; instead of flocks of swans and cranes, swarms of ravens and Arctic birds are to be seen thickening the air. This time the traveller passes the night in the Sloboden, where all sorts and conditions of men congregate--men from the most remote parts in search of work, offering their pair of hands for any description of labor. Hither each brings his misery, his ignorance, and--foul odors. The misery and ignorance are one and the same, but the foul odors are diverse: by these they distinguish one from another, through these they fall into broils. No sooner do they perceive the alien smell than they come to blows. Time presses with the traveller. Now he has reached the land of sledges. Thick mists and snow-storms are his companions. There come days in which there is no morning or noon-day; the snow-drifts change the world around him into a prison-house. Such terrific snow-storms are only known in those parts; they are "pad," the terror of travellers. The night frosts have become insupportable in their severity; the mile-stones lie hidden under the snow; the north wind has swept it into hillocks in many places; then, again, into deep holes, in which the sledge sinks axle-deep: a chorus of wolves howl in the woods. By morning the door of the csárda is snowed up; the only mode of egress is to crawl through the hole in the roof, where the jemsik, his sledge already horsed, is in waiting, leaning against the chimney. He calls laughingly to his fare: "It is cold enough for a couple of fur coats, sir!"