De Richleau walked in a stupor of fatigue. Simon was racking his able brain for some idea as to where they could spend the night; some shelter must be found, that was certain — they could not sleep in the snow. The hotels in Tobolsk were barred to them in this forbidden territory.
Simon almost wished that they had begged a night’s lodging at the farmhouse, in spite of the threatening ancient and her stick.
As they trudged on the houses became more frequent, until the road developed into a mean and straggling street. It seemed endless, but it gradually grew narrower, and the buildings of more importance. At last they entered a large square.
On the corner they halted. How much Simon wished that this was some provincial town in England. He looked about him anxiously; few people were passing, and these few seemed to be scurrying from one glowing stove, with its attendant pile of logs, to another. Then, suddenly, Simon stepped forward, drawing De Richleau after him.
He had seen a queer figure shamble by — a man, whose dark curls were discernible even in the faint glow from the irregular lamps; a man who wore a strange, brimless high hat, puffed out at the top, not unlike a chefs cap, only that this was made of black velvet instead of white linen.
Simon laughed his little jerky laugh into his free hand. “Now,” he said. “If only I haven’t forgotten all my Yiddish!”
He addressed the queer figure, hesitantly, in a strange tongue. The man halted, and peered at him suspiciously, but Simon was persistent. Forgotten words and phrases learnt in his childhood came back to him, and he stumbled on.
That the man understood was evident. He answered in a similar language, asking some questions and nodding at the Duke.
“He is a goy,” Simon admitted. “But, even so, he is as my own father.”
“It is well — come with me,” said the stranger, who was a Rabbi of the Jewish faith.