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On the fifth day after leaving Stretinsk we were aroused at two o'clock in the morning, just as the faint dawn began to streak the east, by a guard going through the train and crying out: "Misovaia, all change. " Eagerly we rubbed our sleepy eyes open, for now we had reached Lake Baikal, and we fondly hoped that the most trying part of our journey was over. But again we were doomed to disappointment, for we waited and waited and waited, and still there was no sign of departure to the other side of the lake. The sun rose, ascended high in the heavens, reached the zenith, and began to decline, and still we sat about miserably upon our baggage, not daring to go far lest at any moment the "ice-breaker" from the other side of the lake might come to transfer us across.
The station-master was eagerly importuned, but knew nothing. No official had the slightest information. Our Russian fellow-travellers only shrugged their shoulders when asked when we should start. At length patience ceased to be a virtue, and a telegram was prepared for the governor of Irkutsk, asking why a trainload of inoffensive passengers of all nationalities were kept in anxious suspense for so many hours at a miserable little station which had been eaten bare of provisions long ago.