The day fixed for their departure arrived. Rosolówski rejoiced at the success of the enterprise now so nearly accomplished. Ludwíka had baked pastry and cakes for the journey, and, repeating her usual asseveration, “By my mother!” declared her heart was bursting with fear and joy. Migoúrski was glad of his deliverance from the garret where he had spent more than a month, but yet gladder at Albína’s animation and joy of life. She seemed to have forgotten all former griefs and all danger, and came running to him in the garret, beaming with rapturous delight as in the days of her girlhood.

At three in the morning came a Cossack escort, and brought a driver with three horses. Albína and Ludwíka, with their little dog, got into the tarantass and sat down on cushions covered with a rug. The Cossack and the driver got on to the box; Migoúrski, dressed as a peasant, lay at the bottom of the vehicle.

They drove out of the town, and the three good horses drew the tarantass along the smooth road, hard as a stone, that ran through an endless uncultivated steppe covered with last year’s dry, silvery feather-grass.