sought, then subsided
for a brief interval, and then with a gleeful, treacherous howl
burst into the chimney, but the wood flared up, and the fire, like
a chained dog, flew wrathfully to meet its foe, a battle began, and
after it--sobs, shrieks, howls of wrath. In all of this there was
the sound of angry misery and unsatisfied hate, and the mortified
impatience of something accustomed to triumph.

Bewitched by this wild, inhuman music the "travellers' room" seemed
spellbound for ever, but all at once the door creaked and the potboy,
in a new print shirt, came in. Limping on one leg, and blinking his
sleepy eyes, he snuffed the candle with his fingers, put some more
wood on the fire and went out. At once from the church, which was
three hundred paces from the tavern, the clock struck midnight. The
wind played with the chimes as with the snowflakes; chasing the
sounds of the clock it whirled them round and round over a vast
space, so that some strokes were cut short or drawn out in long,
vibrating notes, while others were completely lost in the general
uproar. One stroke sounded as distinctly in the room as though it
had chimed just under the window. The child, sleeping on the fox-skin,
started and raised her head. For a minute she stared blankly at the
dark window, at Nasir-ed-Din over whom a crimson glow from the fire
flickered at that moment, then she turned her eyes upon the sleeping
man.

"Daddy," she said.

But the man did not move. The little girl knitted her brow angrily,
lay down, and curled up her legs. Someone in the tavern gave a loud,
prolonged yawn. Soon afterwards there was the squeak of the swing
door and the sound of indistinct voices. Someone came in, shaking
the snow off, and stamping in felt boots which made a muffled thud.

"What is it?" a woman s voice asked languidly.

"Mademoiselle Ilovaisky has come, . . ." answered a bass voice.

Again there was the squeak of the swing door. Then came the roar
of the wind rushing in. Someone, probably the lame boy, ran to the
door leading to the "travellers' room," coughed deferentially, and
lifted the latch.

"This way, lady, please," said a woman's voice in dulcet tones.
"It's clean in here, my beauty. . . ."

The door was opened wide and a peasant with a beard appeared in the
doorway, in the long coat of a coachman, plastered all over with
snow from head to foot, and carrying a big trunk on his shoulder.
He was followed into the room by a feminine f