At that moment we heard the bells of several sledges behind us, overtaking us at a smart pace.
“It’s the mail express bell,” said my driver; “there’s only one like that at the station.”
And certainly the bells of the foremost sledge were particularly fine; their clear, rich, mellow and somewhat jangled notes reached us distinctly on the wind. As I learned afterwards, it was a set of bells such as sportsmen have on their sledges—three bells, a big one in the middle, with a “raspberry note,” as it is called, and two little bells pitched at the interval of a third up and down the scale. The cadence of these thirds and the jangling fifth ringing in the air was uncommonly striking and strangely sweet in the desolate dumb steppe.
“It’s the post,” said my driver, when the foremost of the three sledges was level with us. “How’s the road, can one get along?” he shouted to the hindmost of the drivers; but the latter only shouted to his horses without answering him.
The music of the bells quickly died away in the wind as soon as the post had passed us. I suppose my driver felt ashamed.
“Suppose we go on, sir!” he said to me; “folks have driven along the road, and now their tracks will be fresh.”
I assented and we turned, facing the wind again, and pushing on through the deep snow. I watched the road at the side, that we might not go off the tracks made by the sledges. For two versts their track was distinctly visible; then only a slight unevenness could be detected below the