"Well, what do you think about it now?" I asked of the driver once more. "Shall we get to the station?"
"Which one? We should go back if we let the horses have their way: they will take us. But, as for the next one, that's a problem.... Only we might perish."
"Well, then, let us go back," said I. "And indeed"—
"How is it? Shall we turn about?" repeated the driver.
"Yes, yes: turn back."
The driver shook the reins. The horses started off more rapidly; and, though I did not notice that we had turned around, the wind changed, and soon through the snow appeared the windmills. The driver's good spirits returned, and he began to be communicative.
"Lately," said he, "in just such a snowstorm some people coming from that same station lost their way. Yes: they spent the night in the hayricks, and barely managed to get here in the morning. Thanks to the hayricks, they were rescued. If it had not been for them, they would have frozen to death, it was so cold. And one froze his foot, and died three weeks afterwards."
"But now, you see, it's not cold; and it's growing less windy," I said. "Couldn't we go on?"
"It's warm enough, but it's snowing. Now going back, it seems easier. But it's snowing hard. Might go on, if you were a courier or something; but this is for your own sake. What kind of a joke would that be if a passenger froze to death? How, then, could I be answerable to your grace?"
[1] yamshchík.