“Well, how is it?” asked Vasíli Andréevich when Nikíta came back to the sledge.
“There is no road this side. I must go to the other side and try there,” said Nikíta.
“There’s something there in front. Go and have a look.”
Nikíta went to what had appeared dark, but found that it was earth which the wind had blown from the bare fields of winter oats and had strewn over the snow, colouring it. Having searched to the right also, he returned to the sledge, brushed the snow from his coat, shook it out of his boots, and seated himself once more.
“We must go to the right,” he said decidedly. “The wind was blowing on our left before, but now it is straight in my face. Drive to the right,” he repeated with decision.
Vasíli Andréevich took his advice and turned to the right, but still there was no road. They went on in that direction for some time. The wind was as fierce as ever and it was snowing lightly.
“It seems, Vasíli Andréevich, that we have gone quite astray,” Nikíta suddenly remarked, as if it were a pleasant thing. “What is that?” he added, pointing to some potato vines that showed up from under the snow.
Vasíli Andréevich stopped the perspiring horse, whose deep sides were heaving heavily.
“What is it?”
“Why, we are on the Zakhárov lands. See where we’ve got to!”
“Nonsense!” retorted Vasíli Andréevich.