“Ah! but,” said Chisholm, “I have that young dog, Frank, to show the world to. He is in my charge and in Fred’s. After we have done the needful by him, we may return—Fred is bound to—and then there is no saying what might happen.”
One day, when our friends came out to have their usual run before breakfast, they found the ground all white with snow. This would have warned them, if nothing else had, that Christmas was on ahead; but they also found the moudjiks busy at work getting ready the sledges, and preparations going on everywhere for a long journey.
The morning arrives, and the sledges are brought round, and soon filled with as happy a party, probably, as ever set out on a long dreary mid-winter journey in the wilds of Russia. Crack go the whips; the horses toss their saucy heads and manes in the air; then, with a brave plunge, forward they flee, and, with a cheer from the servants left behind, and a shout from onlooking moudjiks, they are off. Paddy, in the song of “The Groves of Blarney,” talks about “the complatest thing in nature being a coach-and-six or a feather bed;” had he ridden in a Russian travelling-sledge, I daresay he would have considered it a sort of combination of the two. Conversation is easy, as there is no rattling of vile wheels; the air is bracing, and the scenery charming, though hills and dales, and the great still forests themselves, are robed in a garment of snow. At noon they stop for rest and refreshment, then mount and go on again; but in the evening they reach a town of some importance, and here they stop for the night. Onward again next day, and onward the next; and at noon of the fourth the country gets wilder; there is hardly a house to be seen; there are giant trees in the wide, wild forests they traverse, and giant hills on the horizon. Suddenly, at a bend of the road, a great lake—frozen hard, and partially snow-clad—makes its appearance; and not far from its banks, though almost hidden by trees, a lordly mansion, from many of the chimneys of which blue smoke is curling upwards, against the white of a hill that almost overhangs it.
Captain Varde hails the second sledge, and points laughingly towards this mansion, and they know they are nearing the home of his people. Half an hour afterwards, everybody is dismounting from the sledges, greetings are being exchanged, and steaming horses led away to their stables by smiling retainers.
I am not going to describe the life our heroes led at this mansion, which might well be termed a castle; nor even to tell you of the many adventures—some of them wild enough—they had among the hills and in the forests around.
One evening the sledge containing Captain Varde and Chisholm got behind the others, and they were attacked by a pack of hungry wolves in fine form. They had had a good day among the boars—our friends, I mean, not the wolves—and one was towing astern. This particular “piggie” the wolves thought would make them an excellent supper; although, for that matter, being, as they are, hippophagists, they would not have objected to a bite of horse-flesh. The sun was declining in the west, as the sledge tore along through the forest; they had still many versts to ride, and attacked in flank and rear by such a number of these unwelcome guests—for the woods seemed alive with them—the danger was one not to be made light of. Happily for them, their horses were hardy and fleet; they had good guns, and plenty of ammunition, so the slaughter was immense. Kept at bay for a time, the wolves, being reinforced, rallied and pressed the sledgemen closely. Chisholm thought of cutting the boar adrift, but Varde wouldn’t hear of it.
“Nay, my boy, nay,” he cried, “we will never strike our colours while we’ve a single cartridge left unfired.”
Chisholm laughed, and peppered away, and with such good effect, that ere the sun had quite gone down, the enemy drew off and left them, and they soon after regained their companions.