“The weather is uncertain. There is some wind ahead; do you see it drive the snow on the surface?”
“What matter?”
“And do you not see what is over yonder?” pointing with his whip to the east.
“I see nothing more than the white steppes and the clear sky.”
“There! there! that little cloud!”
I saw indeed upon the horizon a little white cloud that I had at first taken for a distant hill. My coachman explained to me that this little cloud foretold a chasse-neige—a snowdrift. I had heard of the drifting snows of this region, and I know that at times, storms swallowed up whole caravans. Saveliitch agreed with the coachman, and advised our return.
But to me the wind did not seem very strong. I hoped to arrive in time for the next relay of horses. I gave orders, therefore, to redouble our speed. The coachman put his horses to the gallop, and kept his eyes to the east.
The wind blew harder and harder. The little cloud soon became a great white mass, rising heavily, growing, extending, and finally invading the whole sky. A fine snow began to fall, which suddenly changed to immense flakes. The wind whistled and howled. It was a chasse-neige—a snowdrift.
In an instant the somber sky was confounded with the sea of snow which the wind raised up from the earth. Every thing was indistinguishable.
“Woe, to us! my lord,” cried the coachman, “it is a whirlwind of snow!”