"St?pan says we cannot possibly go much further, and we must shelter
in the shooting hut," Gritzko announced, gravely; and again Tamara
felt a twinge of fear.
"But what has become of the others?" she asked. "Why do we not see
their tracks?"
"They are obliterated in five minutes. You do not understand the
Russian storm," he said.
Tamara's heart now began to beat again rather wildly, but she reasoned
with herself; she was no coward, and indeed why had she any cause for
alarm? No one could be more aloof than her companion seemed. She was
already numb with cold too, and her common sense told her shelter of
any sort would be acceptable.
They had turned into the forest by now, and the road--if road it could
be called--was rather more distinct.
It was a weird scene. The great giant pine trees, and the fine falling
flakes penetrating through, the quickly vanishing daylight, and the
mist rising from the steaming horses as they galloped along; while
St?pan stood there urging them on like some northern pirate at a ship's
prow.
At last the view showed the white frozen lake, and by it a rough log
hut. They came upon it suddenly, so that Tamara could only realize it
was not large and rather low, when they drew up at the porch.
At the time she was too frozen and miserable to notice that the Prince
unlocked the door, but afterward she remembered she should have been
struck by the strangeness of his having a key.
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