The scenery in the afternoon was more varied; they ran for many miles through the valley of the Chepsa River, but the early winter’s dusk had blotted out the landscape by four in the afternoon. It was quite late at night when the train snorted into Perm, but another consultation had been held by De Richleau and the jolly steward earlier in the evening, and certain drugs were procured during the halt, so the drowsy Simon found himself compelled to sit up and pretend to swallow capsules as the train steamed out. The Duke also took his temperature with great gravity in front of the now solemn and anxious steward.
This second night the train laboured and puffed its way through the Urals, but in the black darkness they could see nothing of the scenery. At a little after six the Duke woke Simon and said, with his grey eyes twinkling: “My poor friend — you are very, very ill I fear — dying almost, I think.”
Simon groaned, in truth this time, but De Richleau put on his dressing-gown and fetched the steward. “My friend,” he cried in Russian. “He will die — he is almost already dead!”
“What can we do,” said the fat steward, sympathetically shrugging his broad shoulders.
“We must get off at Sverdlovsk,” said the Duke.
“You cannot,” said the man. “Your tickets are marked for Irkutsk!”
“What does that matter,” protested the Duke, “the only hope for him is hospital.”
The man shook his head. “The station authorities — they will not permit.”
“It is three more days to Irkutsk,” said De Richleau, almost weeping. “You cannot let him die on the train!”
“No, no, he cannot die on the train!” agreed the steward, obviously frightened and superstitious. “It might mean an accident!”