“Has it got a bottom or not?” softly inquired my assistant.  I did not understand what she was talking about, and I kept silence.

“I say, has the crate got a bottom?  If it has we shall try in vain to break into it.  Here we are digging a trench, and we may, after all, come upon nothing but solid boards.  How shall we take them off?  Better smash the lock; it is a wretched lock.”

Good ideas rarely visit the heads of women, but, as you see, they do visit them sometimes.  I have always valued good ideas, and have always tried to utilise them as far as possible.

Having found the lock, I tugged at it and wrenched off the whole thing.  My accomplice immediately stooped down and wriggled like a serpent into the gaping-open, four cornered cover of the crate whence she called to me approvingly, in a low tone: 

“You’re a brick!”

Nowadays a little crumb of praise from a woman is dearer to me than a whole dithyramb from a man, even though he be more eloquent than all the ancient and modern orators put together.  Then, however, I was less amiably disposed than I am now, and, paying no attention to the compliment of my comrade, I asked her curtly and anxiously: 

“Is there anything?”

In a monotonous tone she set about calculating our discoveries.

“A basketful of bottles—­thick furs—­a sunshade—­an iron pail.”

All this was uneatable.  I felt that my hopes had vanished...  But suddenly she exclaimed vivaciously: 

“Aha! here it is!”

“What?”

“Bread ... a loaf ... it’s only wet ... take it!”

A loaf flew to my feet and after it herself, my valiant comrade.  I had already bitten off a morsel, stuffed it in my mouth, and was chewing it...

“Come, give me some too!...  And we mustn’t stay here...  Where shall we go?” she looked inquiringly about on all sides...  It was dark, wet, and boisterous.

“Look! there’s an upset canoe yonder ... let us go there.”

“Let us go then!” And off we set, demolishing our booty as we went, and filling our mouths with large portions of it...  The rain grew more violent, the river roared; from somewhere or other resounded a prolonged mocking whistle—­just as if Someone great who feared nobody was whistling down all earthly institutions and along with them this horrid autumnal wind and us its heroes.  This whistling made my heart throb painfully, in spite of which I greedily went on eating, and in this respect the girl, walking on my left hand, kept even pace with me.

“What do they call you?” I asked her—­why I know not.

“Natasha,” she answered shortly, munching loudly.

I stared at her.  My heart ached within me; and then I stared into the mist before me, and it seemed to me as if the inimical countenance of my Destiny was smiling at me enigmatically and coldly.

* * * * *