Two priests with wide dirty black hats, long hair, and soiled grey gowns slowly found their way through the crowd.

A bunch of Austrian prisoners in their blue-grey uniform made a strange splash of colour in a corner of the platform, where, very contentedly, they were drinking their tea; some one in the invisible distance was playing the balalaika and every now and then some church bell in the town rang clearly and sharply above the tumult.

The thin films of dust, yellow in the evening sun, hovered like golden smoke under the station roof.

At last with a reluctant jerk and shiver the train was slowly persuaded to totter into the evening air; the evening scents were again around us, the balalaika, now upon the train, hummed behind us, as we pushed out upon her last night's journey.
The two Sisters had the seats by the windows; Nikitin curled up his great length in another corner and Andrey Vassilievitch settled himself with much grunting and many exclamations beside him.

I and Trenchard sat stiffly on the other side.
I had, long ago, accustomed myself to sleep in any position on any occasion, however sudden it might be, and I fancied that I should now, in a moment, be asleep, although I had never, in my long travelling experience, known greater discomfort.