Steinmetz drew the furs closer up round him.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at his companion’s face, and seeing little but the eyes, by reason of the sable collar of his coat, which met the fur of his cap; “yes, and why not?”

“I cannot leave them,” answered Paul.  “I cannot go away now that there is trouble among them.  What it is, goodness only knows!  They would never have got like this by themselves.  Somebody has been at them, and I don’t think it is the Nihilists.  It is worse than that.  Some devil has been stirring them up, and they know no better.  He is still at it.  They are getting worse day by day, and I cannot catch him.  If I do, by God!  Steinmetz, I’ll twist his neck.”

Steinmetz smiled grimly.

“Yes,” he answered, “you are capable of it.  For me, I am getting tired of the moujik.  He is an inveterate, incurable fool.  If he is going to be a dangerous fool as well, I should almost be inclined to let him go to the devil in his own way.”

“I dare say; but you are not in my position.”

“No; that is true, Pavlo.  They were not my father’s serfs.  Generations of my ancestors have not saved generations of their ancestors from starvation.  My fathers before me have not toiled and slaved and legislated for them.  I have not learnt medicine that I might doctor them.  I have not risked my health and life in their sties, where pigs would refuse to live.  I have not given my whole heart and soul to their welfare, to receive no thanks, but only hatred.  No, it is different for me.  I owe them nothing, mein lieber; that is the difference.”

“If I agree to make a bolt for Petersburg to-morrow will you come?” retorted Paul.

“No,” answered the stout man.

“I thought not.  Your cynicism is only a matter of words, Steinmetz, and not of deeds.  There is no question of either of us leaving Osterno.  We must stay and fight it right out here.”

“That is so,” answered Steinmetz, with the Teutonic stolidity of manner which sometimes came over him.  “But the ladies—­what of them?”

Paul did not answer.  They were passing over the rise of a heavy drift.  It was necessary to keep the horses up to their work, to prevent the runners of the sleigh sinking into the snow.  With voice and whip Paul encouraged them.  He was kind to animals, but never spared them—­a strong man, who gave freely of his strength and expected an equal generosity.

“This is no place for Miss Delafield,” added Steinmetz, looking straight in front of him.

“I know that!” answered Paul sharply.  “I wish to God she was not here!” he added in a lower tone, and the words were lost beneath the frozen mustache.