A NIGHT OF HORRORS.

Mataura Ensign, Issue 17, 3 May 1895, Page 2

A NIGHT OF HORRORS.

«=— •*• THE TERRORS OF SIBERIA. M. Sochacrewski, a Russian painter, has made a hit in a gigantic picture, now on exhibition in London, entitled ' The Exile's Leave-taking,' representing a scene in Siberia. The artist is himself an escapee, and in conversation with a representative of the 'Westminster G'Z3tte' he told many stories of convict life. Pointing to a figure in hia picture, he said : * That man's is the most cruel story of all, if, indeed, there are degrees in the kind of cruelty which fills Siberian prisons with the men whom Russia cau least afford to lose. I have watched him slowly dying in the minec, and long after his body had returned to dust the story of his innocence came out. This his is story :— lt was in the Easter night, when all good orthodox Russians go to church, remaining all night long at the imposing service, and then returning home towards morning to have a great feast after the long fast. A laborer in a certain village, knowing that the owner of a cottage Dear by had a good deal of money and valuables, had chosen that night to break into the cottage, believing that all the members of the household would be at church. He took his hatchet with him, not, however, with the slightest idea of injuring anybody, but merely to break tho doors open. As you know, a Russian laborer uses his hatchet where another man would use a pockeUknifo or any other instrument. On entering the cottage the man found that several of the women had' stayed at home and were busy in the kitchen, and when he suddenly confronted them a kind of madnes? seized him; he pulled his hatchet out of his belt and began to butcher them all in a most ghastly way, and till his own sheepskin coat was covered with blood up to the very neck. Then he went on plundering and stuffing his pockets with whatever he could lay his hands on. At last, having taken all he wanted, he went back into the kitchen, and, with the frenzy still upon him, made for the door. He had to step over the mutilated bodies, and in his hurry trod upon the outstre'ohed arm of one of his victims. Whether she was not quite dead or whether it was only the manner in which he had stepped on the arm I do not know, but somehow the body began to wriggle under his feet, and this suddenly brought him back to his senses and to the consciousness of the awful deed he had done. He dashed out of the house into the dark night, into a snow field, and across it to where, in a priest's cottage, he saw a light shining through tho window. The head priest had taken the midnight service ; the delicate young assistant had stayed at home, and into his quiet room there rushes suddenly a terrible creature ; a man dripping wich blood, and with wild terror in his eyes. ' For Christ's sake, save me ! ' he yells ; ( save me that I may live to work out my salvation and save my soul I ' The priest stands aghast, and the murderer gasps out what he had done, and again yells ' Save, ob, Bave my soul ! ' • Very well,' saya the priest at las 1 ", * I will save you. Go and^ change your sheepskin for that of my servant, and fly.' The peasant eheepskin coats being all alike, there was no danger that the criminal might easily be discovered by means of his coat. And he escaped, and was heard of no more for many and many a year. But; when the morning broke of that Easter night, and the cottager returned to his home, and there found that scene of horror, a track of blood was coon discovered from the kitchen door across tho snowfield into the priest's house. They came upon him and said : ' You have hidden the murderer, or you know who has dona this deed. Give hia name.' But the priest would not give his namp, though he confessed tbat he knew it. Then they searched his house, aod found the bloody coat, and said : ' If you will not give the name, perchance you yourself are the murderer.' And he was sent into the Siberian mines, that man with the saintly face and the frail body. And then, many years after — surely you remember reading about it in the papers a year or two ago ?— there died in Asia Minor a most honored Russian citizen. Jlg had becm a very saint for goodness and help for others. He had prospered, and the town had offered him one honorable ponilion after another. But he had accepted nothing, remaining humble and meek. At last

he was dying, and called for a priest, and there and then confessed that he was the man who had done the terrible murder in the Easter night of many years ago. He had never heard anything about what followed his escape ; knew nothing of the sacrifice, and exile, and death of the priest. And having confessed he died. A telegram was sent at once to the Emperor, and the authorities in Siberia were communicated with at once ; bub the priest, the poor, patient priest, where was he ? Slowly he had been done to death, and now his bones lie deep under the hard earth of cruel Siberia.'