"There is a copse!" he exclaimed.

"To take refuge there is to run the risk of being caught, if they are in search of me; but I have no choice." In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the bridle, reached a little larch wood, through which the road lay.

Beyond this it was destitute of trees, and wound among bogs and pools, separated by dwarfed bushes, whins, and heather.

The ground on either side was quite impracticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through the wood.

They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk.