"A block of wood, I think."
"A dog, more likely."
"Too big—must be a bundle of hay."
A handsome young fellow, lately arrived in that district from the North, presses to the front, and fixing his keen eyes for a moment upon the mysterious object, says, emphatically, "Tchelovek!" (a man).
"A man?" echo two or three of his companions. "He must be frozen, then, for he don't seem to move a bit."
"Feodor [Theodore] has the best eyes among us, though," puts in another. "If he says a man, why, a man it must be."
"And so it is," shouts one who has run a little way up the bank; "and he's alive, too, for I saw him move his head just now."
By this time the ice-block had come near enough to let the strange object upon it be plainly seen. It was the figure of a man in a sheep-skin frock, doubled up in a crouching posture.
"We must help him, lads," cries Feodor; "it won't do to let a man perish before our eyes."
"Ah, my boy," answers an old man beside him, shaking his gray head, "it's easy to say 'help him,' but how are we to do it? Crossing the Volga when it's moving is not like dipping a spoon in a bowl of milk."