“That is so;” thought Riga in the chimney, “and now I see the wisdom of it.” He gave a movement of satisfaction, and some of the milk splashed hissing down into the fire.
“What is that, Svorovitch?” asked Lopka.
“I have often heard that sound in the fire,” was the reply, “and my father says if it is a saint’s day, the saint weeps for some wrong done.”
At this moment the thick pungent smoke tickled Riga’s nose, and he gave vent to three good hearty sneezes. The two boys below jumped to their feet and ran away.
“There is still more, and it may be learned by listening,” murmured Riga as he went down. “I am not a saint, but I will do more than weep if any wrong is about to be done.”
It was the winter time; the cold was intense. If you should put your uncovered face out of doors, the eyelashes would freeze to your cheeks. The weather was so fierce, the clouds so threatening, that but few of the men had ventured out; such as had, rode up swiftly on their sledges at nightfall, set the deer free among the herd, and gathered round the fire to sleep, or talk over the adventures of the day.
Among other things, this bitterest night of all, they returned to the conversation of several preceding nights, about two Englishmen with their guide, belated by the snows of an early winter. These travellers had pressed on towards a port on the coast, thinking to winter there comfortably until some ship would sail for San Francisco; but reports had now reached the tribe of a fatal accident to one of the reindeer; and wise Lodovin shook his head. He was seventy years old, and knew everything.
“There was a spot,” he said, “near the Kamschatkan shore, a hut underground constructed from a wrecked vessel by some sailors. All guides know of this place. There was fuel there, and they would not freeze; but they could have had no provisions worth speaking of, and either they must die of starvation, or go on and perish in the coming storm upon the toondra.”
This had been repeated each night since Lodovin had heard of the dead deer; but his listeners were willing to receive an observation many times for want of fresher.
Usually Riga sat long in the midst of the circle; but to-night he withdrew early to his particular home, a small enclosure a few feet square, where the whole family slept, lighted by a bit of moss floating in oil. He had seen Lopka enter the next room; and the fear of missing him brought him early to lie on his own floor where he could peep beneath the edge of the skin. Later, when everything was quiet, the same anxiety made him crawl out and take up his old place on the notched pole, where he clung silent and immovable, but listening and looking intently, every sense merged into his sense of curiosity.