“Well, would you like to come and sleep here?”
“May God recompense you, yes; if it will not inconvenience you.”
An aged couple lived there—good people, who prepared a meagre repast, which seemed a feast to Piotrowski: the greatest comfort of all being that he could take off his clothes.
SIBERIAN EXILES.
They gave him his breakfast, and would not accept any remuneration but his warm and cordial thanks.
One evening Piotrowski’s life was nearly extinct. The way was lost, the hail pierced his skin, his supply of bread was exhausted, and after vainly dragging his weary limbs, he fell into a kind of torpor. A loud voice roused him—“What are you doing here?”
“I am making a pilgrimage to the monastery of Solovetsk, but the storm prevented my seeing the track, and I have not eaten for several days.”
“It is not surprising. We who live on the spot often wander away. There, drink that.”
The speaker gave him a bottle containing some brandy, which burned him so fearfully, that in his pain he danced about.