And with all that, and with the certainty that those things were gone for ever, arose the great longing for one more breath of liberty, for one more ride over the boundless steppe, for one more draught of the sour kvass, of the camp brew of rye and malt.
The longing for such things, for one thing almost unattainable, is in man and beast at certain times.

In the distant northern plains, a hundred miles from the sea, in the midst of the Laplander's village, a young reindeer raises his broad muzzle to the north wind, and stares at the limitless distance while a man may count a hundred.

He grows restless from that moment, but he is yet alone.

The next day, a dozen of the herd look up, from the cropping of the moss, snuffing the breeze.

Then the Laps nod to one another, and the camp grows daily more unquiet.