The carriage stood still.
“Who is there? Is it you, cousin, in this weather?”
“And you?”
“I am hurrying home.”
“So do I want to. I came down the precipice, and lost my way in the bushes.
“Who is driving you? Is there room for me.”
“Plenty of room,” said a masculine voice. “Give me your hand to get up.” Raisky gave his hand, and was hauled up by a strong arm. Next to Vera sat Marina, and the two, huddled together like wet chickens, were trying to protect themselves from the drenching rain by the leather covering.
“Who is with you?” asked Raisky in a low voice. “Whose horses are these, and who is driving?”
“Ivan Ivanovich.”
“I don’t know him.”