that Marfa Strogoff
was in the hands of Ivan Ogareff, and that she was about to atone,
perhaps with her life, for that natural exhibition of her feelings which
she had been unable to restrain when she suddenly found herself in the
presence of her son. And it was fortunate that he was ignorant of it.
Could he have withstood this fresh trial?

Michael Strogoff urged on his horse, imbuing him with all his own
feverish impatience, requiring of him one thing only, namely, to bear
him rapidly to the next posting-house, where he could be exchanged for a
quicker conveyance.

At midnight he had cleared fifty miles, and halted at the station of
Koulikovo. But there, as he had feared, he found neither horses nor
carriages. Several Tartar detachments had passed along the highway of
the steppe. Everything had been stolen or requisitioned both in the
villages and in the posting-houses. It was with difficulty that Michael
Strogoff was even able to obtain some refreshment for his horse and
himself.

It was of great importance, therefore, to spare his horse, for he could
not tell when or how he might be able to replace it. Desiring, however,
to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the horsemen
who had no doubt been dispatched in pursuit, he resolved to push on.
After one hour's rest he resumed his course across the steppe.

Hitherto the weather had been propitious for his journey. The
temperature was endurable. The nights at this time of the year are very
short, and as they are lighted by the moon, the route over the steppe is
practicable. Michael Strogoff, moreover, was a man certain of his
road and devoid of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of the melancholy
thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clearness of mind, and
made for his destined point as though it were visible upon the horizon.
When he did halt for a moment at some turn in the road it was to breathe
his horse. Now he would dismount to ease his steed for a moment, and
again he would place his ear to the ground to listen for the sound of
galloping horses upon the steppe. Nothing arousing his suspicions, he
resumed his way.

On the 30th of July, at nine o'clock in the morning, Michael Strogoff
passed through the station of Touroumoff and entered the swampy district
of the Baraba.

There, for a distance of three hundred versts, the natural obstacles
would be extremely great. He knew this, but he also knew that he would
certainly surmount