The farmhouse door had opened, and a dark-skinned woman, enveloped in so many layers of clothing that all semblance of waistline had vanished, stood looking at them with round, dark eyes.
Immediately De Richleau’s ill humour and fatigue vanished. He went up to her, breaking into voluble Russian. It was evident, however, that she had some difficulty in understanding him — and he her. Even Simon could appreciate that her harsh patois had little resemblance to Valeria Petrovna’s sibilant tongue.
A lad of about seventeen was fetched, also a little girl and an aged crone. The latter regarded them with bleary eyes, and for some mysterious reason shook her stick threateningly at Simon.
De Richleau produced his well-filled wallet once again, and it was obvious that whatever might be the ideas and wishes of the Kommissars, hard cash still had a certain value in the eyes of the thrifty Russian peasants.
The young boy unharnessed and led away the horses, the Duke gave liberal payment for their keep in advance, and soon the two friends were trudging down the track to. the highway.
“Have you considered what we should do now?” Contrary to custom, it was the tired Duke who asked the question.
“How far to the town?”
“Three miles,” said De Richleau, bitterly.
“Come on, old chap.” Simon thrust his arm through that of the older man. “It’ll be all right — don’t you worry.”
They trudged on through the darkening evening; somehow, since they had left Moscow, it had always seemed to be night, the short, sunny days of these high latitudes were gone so quickly.