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Zakhar, while still keeping his arms extended, raised one hand with the reins. "No you won't, master!" he shouted. Nicholas put all his horses to a gallop and passed Zakhar. The horses showered the fine dry snow on the faces of those in the sleigh beside them sounded quick ringing bells and they caught confused glimpses of swiftly moving legs and the shadows of the troyka they were passing.

The whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls shrieking were heard from different sides. Again checking his horses, Nicholas looked around him. They were still surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with stars. "Zakhar is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the left?" thought Nicholas.

The shaft horse swayed from side to side, moving his ears as if asking: "Isn't it time to begin now?" In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing farther and farther off, the black horses driven by Zakhar could be clearly seen against the white snow. From that sleigh one could hear the shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers.

"You go ahead, Zakhar!" shouted Nicholas to his father's coachman, wishing for a chance to race past him. The old count's troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward, squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned bell clanging.

"There's the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhar, has his stand, and there's Zakhar himself and still the same horse! And here's the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can't you hurry up? Now then!" "Which house is it?" asked the driver. "Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don't you see? That's our house," said Rostov. "Of course, it's our house!

A stranger, on seeing him, might readily have leaped to the conclusion that he must be the Village Elder, but in reality he was a simple member of the Commune, like his neighbour, poor Zakhar Leshkof, who never let slip an opportunity of getting drunk, was always in debt, and, on the whole, possessed a more than dubious reputation. Ivan had, it is true, been Village Elder some years before.

Kononov had been tried twenty years ago for arson, and even now he was indicted for the seduction of a minor. Together with him, for the second time already, on a similar charge, Zakhar Kirillov Robustov had been dragged to court. Robustov was a stout, short merchant with a round face and cheerful blue eyes.

Zakhar held back his horses and turned his face, which was already covered with hoarfrost to his eyebrows. Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and Zakhar, stretching out his arms, clucked his tongue and let his horses go. "Now, look out, master!" he cried. Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved the feet of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead.