The same injunction was given to all the villages of the province.
It was the intention of the Muscovite government to lay the country desert before the invaders.
No one thought for an instant of disputing these orders.
They were executed, and this was the reason why not a single human being remained in Krasnoiarsk.
Michael Strogoff, Nadia, and Nicholas passed silently through the streets of the town.
They felt half-stupefied.
They themselves made the only sound to be heard in this dead city.
Michael allowed nothing of what he felt to appear, but he inwardly raged against the bad luck which pursued him, his hopes being again disappointed.
“Alack, alack!” cried Nicholas,
“I shall never get any employment in this desert!”
“Friend,” said Nadia, “you must go on with us.”
“I must indeed!” replied Nicholas.
“The wire is no doubt still working between Oudinsk and Irkutsk, and there—Shall we start, little father?”
“Let us wait till to-morrow,” answered Michael.
“You are right,” said Nicholas.
“We have the Yenisei to cross, and need light to see our way there!”
“To see!” murmured Nadia, thinking of her blind companion.
Nicholas heard her, and turning to Michael,
“Forgive me, little father,” said he. “Alas! night and day, it is true, are all the same to you!”
“Do not reproach yourself, friend,” replied Michael, pressing his hand over his eyes.
“With you for a guide I can still act.
Take a few hours’ repose.
Nadia must rest too.
To-morrow we will recommence our journey!”
Michael and his friends had not to search long for a place of rest.
The first house, the door of which they pushed open, was empty, as well as all the others.
Nothing could be found within but a few heaps of leaves.
For want of better fodder the horse had to content himself with this scanty nourishment.
The provisions of the kibitka were not yet exhausted, so each had a share.
Then, after having knelt before a small picture of the Panaghia, hung on the wall, and still lighted up by a flickering lamp, Nicholas and the young girl slept, whilst Michael, over whom sleep had no influence, watched.
Before daybreak the next morning, the 26th of August, the horse was drawing the kibitka through the forests of birch trees towards the banks of the Yenisei.
Michael was in much anxiety.
How was he to cross the river, if, as was probable, all boats had been destroyed to retard the Tartars’ march?
He knew the Yenisei, its width was considerable, its currents strong.
Ordinarily by means of boats specially built for the conveyance of travelers, carriages, and horses, the passage of the Yenisei takes about three hours, and then it is with extreme difficulty that the boats reach the opposite bank.
Now, in the absence of any ferry, how was the kibitka to get from one bank to the other?
Day was breaking when the kibitka reached the left bank, where one of the wide alleys of the park ended.
They were about a hundred feet above the Yenisei, and could therefore survey the whole of its wide course.
“Do you see a boat?” asked Michael, casting his eyes eagerly about from one side to the other, mechanically, no doubt, as if he could really see.
“It is scarcely light yet, brother,” replied Nadia.
“The fog is still thick, and we cannot see the water.”
“But I hear it roaring,” said Michael.
Indeed, from the fog issued a dull roaring sound.
The waters being high rushed down with tumultuous violence.
All three waited until the misty curtain should rise.
The sun would not be long in dispersing the vapors.
“Well?” asked Michael.
“The fog is beginning to roll away, brother,” replied Nadia, “and it will soon be clear.”
“Then you do not see the surface of the water yet?”
“Not yet.”