The road ran ever
and anon right down to where the cold, green waves broke upon the rocky
shore. In a few weeks that coast would be ice-bound and snow-covered,
and then the silence of the God-forsaken country would be complete.
After five miles or so, the driver pulled up and descended to readjust
his harness, whereupon I got out and asked him in the best Russian I
could command:
"Where are we going?"
"To Nystad."
"How far is that?"
"Sixty-eight," was his reply.
I took him to imply kilometres, as being a Finn he would not speak of
versts.
"The Chief of Police has given you directions?" I asked.
"His high Excellency has told me exactly what to do," was the man's
answer, as he took out his huge wooden pipe and filled it. "You wish to
see the young lady?"
"Yes," I answered, "to first see her, and I do not know whether it will
be necessary for me to make myself known to her. Where is she?"
"Beyond Nystad," was his vague answer with a wave of his big fat hand in
the direction of the dark pine forest that stretched before us.
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