Two hours ago, blinded by the snowstorm, he had become separated from his colleagues and lost in a vast field, and after wandering without success in every direction, he had set off along this road. Now, seeing the rapidly descending evening, he exerted all his strength so that he could arrive at a village and put in somewhere for the night before complete darkness set in. But the road dragged on endlessly, empty and barren, its sides unrelieved by even a poor hut or a wayside smithy. An uncomfortable feeling of isolation gripped him. He momentarily removed his sweat-moistened fur cap and, while wiping its inside with a handkerchief, drew breath into his weary chest.

He went on. The road gradually changed its course and, bending widely, fell to the west. After rounding a prominent crag, the engineer started to descend into the valley with a quickened step. Suddenly, as he was rapidly scanning the area before him with his grey, sharp-sighted eyes, he let out an involuntary cry of joy. Down at the bottom of the road, on the right-hand side, flickered a dim little light: he was within reach of a human habitation. He hastened his step and, after a fifteen-minute vigorous hike, stood before a shoddy, snow-covered structure. It was a type of roadside inn without outbuildings, without a stable – part house, part hut – erected in complete seclusion. All about, as far as the eye could see, there was no sign of any village, farmsteads or settlements; just a couple of unleashed snow flurries kept on barking in furious yelps, like guard dogs, over the lonely habitation … .

He knocked on the rotting door. It immediately burst open, and at the entrance to a dimly-lit hallway he was greeted by an athletically-built, white-haired man with a peculiarly hopeful smile. Ozarski, closing the door behind himself, bowed slightly to the landlord and asked for a night’s lodging. The old man nodded his head amicably and, taking in with an exploratory glance the healthy, firm figure of the young man, said in a voice to which he tried to impart a possibly gentle, even tender, tone:

‘There will be a place – oh, yes; there will be a place to lay down your bright little head. And I won’t be stingy with food; I’ll feed you and give you something to drink; yes, yes; I’ll give you something to drink. Only why don’t you come closer, sir, here into the room; it’ll be nice and warm.’

And with a gentle, protective movement, he encircled him about the waist and led him to the open doorway of the room. This seemed too familiar to Ozarski, and he would have gladly freed himself. But the old man’s arm held him firmly about the middle, and whether he liked it or not he had to accept this peculiar cordiality from the innkeeper.

While crossing the high threshold with some hesitancy, Ozarski suddenly stumbled and lost his balance. He would have fallen had it not been for the willing help of his companion, who held onto him and, raising him like a child, carried him effortlessly into the room. Here, gently placing him on the ground, the old man said in a strangely altered voice:

‘Well, sir, how was it travelling through the air? You’re as light as a feather.’

Ozarski looked with amazement at the white-haired giant who had thought him, a man tall and well-built, as light as a feather. He was impressed by his strength, yet at the same time he couldn’t fight off a particular impression of distaste created by the innkeeper’s inappropriate familiarity and intrusive warmth. Now, in the glare of a simple kitchen lamp hanging on a rope from a filthy ceiling, Ozarski could get a thorough look at him. He was maybe seventy years old, but the healthy, vigorous posture and the recent display of strength, unusual for this age, disorientated the observer. The big face, covered with warts, was framed on both sides by long, silverly white hair cut evenly near the shoulders. Most interesting of all were the old man’s eyes. Black, of demonic glitter, they burned with wild, lecherous fire. The same look was betrayed by a wide face with a strong, prominent jaw and fat, sensuous lips. For Ozarski the impression was, on the whole, unpleasant and instinctively repellent, though he couldn’t resist a certain magnetic effect exerted by the fascinating eyes.

Meanwhile, the old man busied himself with supper. He took down from a shelf some smoked bacon and a loaf of whole-wheat bread, he drew out from a green cupboard a demijohn of vodka, and placed everything on the table before his guest.

‘Eat, sir, eat.