No food of any kind was procurable at the post-house, and all our own provisions were behind with Gerome.
Luckily, I had stuck to the flask of vodka! With the help of the postmaster, a decrepit, half-witted old man, and the sole inmate of the place, I managed to kindle a good fire, and set to work to dry my clothes, a somewhat uncomfortable process, as it entailed my remaining three-parts naked for half the night in an atmosphere very little above zero.

The sables were in a terrible state.

It was midnight before the mud on them was sufficiently dry to brush off, as I fondly hoped, in the morning.
Gerome did not turn up till one o'clock a.m., his horse not having arrived at Koudoum till past seven.

He had lost his way twice, and had almost given up all hopes of reaching Rustemabad till daylight, when my fire, the only light in the place, shone out of the darkness.

The poor fellow was so stiff and numbed with fatigue and cold that I had to lift him off his horse and carry him into the post-house.