"But here," laying his hand over his heart, "here is always Russia and our brothers of Russia." The stranger turned a keen glance upon him.

"I believe you," he said.

"No Russian can forget his fatherland.

No Russian can forget his brother." His eyes were lit with a dreamy light, as he gazed far beyond the plain and the glowing horizon.
At the door of the little black shack Simon halted the party.
"Pardon, I will prepare for my brother," he said.
As he opened the door a cloud of steaming odours rushed forth to meet them.

The stranger drew back and turned his face again to the horizon, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air, purified by its sweep of a thousand miles over snow clad prairie.
"Ah," he said, "wonderful! wonderful! Yes, that is Russia, that air, that sky, that plain." After some minutes Simon returned.
"Enter," he said, bowing low.