“Well, I think it would be better to turn back,” said Alyoshka; “it’s poor fun being lost.”

“Lord, ’a’ mercy! how the snow is flying; no chance of seeing the road; one’s eyes choked up entirely.⁠ ⁠… Lord, ’a’ mercy!” grumbled the driver.

We had not driven on another quarter of an hour, when the driver, pulling up the horses, handed the reins to Alyoshka, clumsily extricated his legs from the box, and walked off to look for the road, his big boots crunching in the snow.

“Where are you going? Are we off the road, eh?” I inquired, but the driver did not answer. Turning his head to avoid the wind, which was cutting straight in his face, he walked away from the sledge.

“Well, found it?” I questioned him again, when he had come back.