“A hare’s track, a lot of tracks!” rang out Natásha’s voice through the frost-bound air.
“How light it is, Nicolas!” came Sónya’s voice.
Nikoláy glanced round at Sónya, and bent down to see her face closer. Quite a new, sweet face with black eyebrows and mustaches peeped up at him from her sable furs—so close and yet so distant—in the moonlight.
“That used to be Sónya,” thought he, and looked at her closer and smiled.
“What is it, Nicolas?”
“Nothing,” said he and turned again to the horses.
When they came out onto the beaten high road—polished by sleigh runners and cut up by roughshod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in the moonlight—the horses began to tug at the reins of their own accord and increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and breaking into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed from side