Old landmarks, nearly forgotten, began to appear and remind him of the past.
"What time do we get there ?" he asked a passing brakeman.
"Eleven-thirty-four." Paul's companion gave him a look of envy.
"You speak English well," said he.
Paul didn't like that, and took refuge behind one of those Slavonic indirections which are typical of the Russian mind--an indirection hinting at mysterious purpose and power.
"There are times in a life," said he, "when it becomes necessary to speak a foreign language well." They looked at each other then, and simultaneously they nodded.
"You are right, batuchka," said the blonde giant at last, matching indirection with indirection.

"For myself, I cannot speak English well--ah, no--but I have a language that all men understand--and fear--and when I speak, the houses fall and the mountains shake their heads." His eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly--intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but Paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed.
"A Bolshevist, sure enough," he thought.
A familiar landscape outside attracted his attention.
"We'll be there in a few minutes," he thought.

"Yes, there's the road ...
and there's the lower bridge....

I hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there.

I'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see." At the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him.