Steinmetz made no answer. They drove on through the gathering gloom. The
sky was of a yellow gray, and the earth reflected the dismal hue of it.
Presently it began to snow, driving in a fine haze from the north. The
two men lapsed into silence. Steinmetz, buried in his furs like a great,
cumbrous bear, appeared to be half asleep. They had had a long and
wearisome day. The horses had covered their forty miles and more from
village to village, where the two men had only gathered discouragement
and foreboding. Some of the starostas were sullen; others openly scared.
None of them were glad to see Steinmetz. Paul had never dared to betray
his identity. With the gendarmes--the tchinovniks--they had not deemed
it wise to hold communication.
"Stop!" cried Steinmetz suddenly, and Paul pulled the horses on to their
haunches.
"I thought you were asleep," he said.
There was no one in sight. They were driving along the new road now, the
high-way Paul had constructed from Osterno to Tver. The road itself was,
of course, indistinguishable, but the telegraph posts marked its course.
Steinmetz tumbled heavily out of his furs and went toward the nearest
telegraph post.
"Where is the wire?" he shouted.
Paul followed him in the sleigh. Together they peered up into the
darkness and the falling snow. The posts were there, but the wire was
gone.
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