were passing. The whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls shrieking were heard from different sides.
Again checking his horses, Nikoláy looked around him. They were still surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with stars.
“Zakhár is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the left?” thought Nikoláy. “Are we getting to the Melyukóvs’? Is this Melyukóvka? Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows what is happening to us—but it is very strange and pleasant whatever it is.” And he looked round in the sleigh.
“Look, his mustache and eyelashes are all white!” said one of the strange, pretty, unfamiliar people—the one with fine eyebrows and mustache.
“I think this used to be Natásha,” thought Nikoláy, “and that was Madame Schoss, but perhaps it’s