It was late in October, and a cold wind was driving from the north-west across a plain which for sheer dismalness of aspect may give points to Sahara and beat that abode of mental depression without an effort.

So far as the eye could reach there was no habitation to break the line of horizon.

A few stunted fir-trees, standing in a position of permanent deprecation, with their backs turned, as it were, to the north, stood sparsely on the plain.

The grass did not look good to eat, though the Cossack horses would no doubt have liked to try it.

The road seemed to have been drawn by some Titan engineer with a ruler from horizon to horizon.
Away to the south there was a forest of the same stunted pines, where a few charcoal-burners and resin-tappers eked out a forlorn and obscure existence.