midst of clouds of smoke and fire. Was the struggle, then,
in Kolyvan? Michael was compelled to think so. It was evident that
Russians and Tartars were fighting in the streets of the town. Was this
a time to seek refuge there? Would he not run a risk of being taken
prisoner? Should he succeed in escaping from Kolyvan, as he had escaped
from Omsk? He hesitated and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to
try, even on foot, to reach some small town, and there procure a horse
at any price? This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving
the Obi, went forward to the right of Kolyvan.

The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang up on the
left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire quarter of Kolyvan.

Michael was running across the steppe endeavoring to gain the covert of
some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right. He
dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly, and
it would have been difficult to escape them.

Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house, which
it would be possible to reach before he was perceived. Michael had
no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask or take something to
recruit his strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue.

He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a verst
distant. As he approached, he could see that it was a telegraph office.
Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went
towards Kolyvan.

It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was
abandoned; but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there, and wait
till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered
with Tartar scouts.

He ran up to the door and pushed it open.

A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages were
dispatched. This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to all that
was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind his little
wicket until the public claimed his services.

Michael ran up to him, and in a voice broken by fatigue, "What do you
know?" he asked.

"Nothing," answered the clerk, smiling.

"Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?"

"They say so."

"But who are the victors?"

"I don't know."

Such calmness, such indifference, in the midst of these terrible events,
was scarcely credible.

"And is not the wire cut?" said Michael.

"It is cut between Kolyvan