IN THE NAME OF THE CZAR.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 30, Issue 19, 8 March 1918, Page 7

IN THE NAME OF THE CZAR.

'(Copyright.)

By WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON. Author of “Vera Shamarin,” “The House of Orfanoff,” &c.

PART 4_ As an advance in the darkness would have courted certain attack from the wolves, preparations were made to spend the remainder of the night on the ground. The Yeneseisk party were separated from the others and marched forward a distance of fifty yards. Horses were harnessed to the covered sledge, and, with a bitter pang, Alexis saw it vanish amid the string of carts. The fire was left in possession of the Irkutsk party, ai>dt fresh ones were built by the strangers.

The convicts were huddled round the blase in dismal groups. Some stretched themselves in the snow and tried vain Sly to sleep. Little wonder that none could close their eyes. Here and there lay bleeding and mangled wretches whose wounds had been clumsily bandaged by the Cossacks. Their groans and cries mingled with the baying of wolves, for the hungry pack still prowled in the vicinity. Torches and bonfires flashed along tbs line and cast a yellow glare on the bloody snow. Alexis found himself by the side of Carl Pashkin, and with a motive, which he Intended revealing later, he poured out his whole sad story. Pushkin was deeply impressed by the narrative.

“I believe in your innocence,” be replied. “I knew from the flrat that you were far above the rest of us. But you have no redress that I can see.”

He finally told Alexis something of his own life.. He had resided in Irkutsk and the vicinity, he said, until be was thirty years old. Then he moved to South Russia, where poverty drove him to crime, and he became the leader of a band of robbers.

"You have lived in Irkutsk, then?” asked Alexis. "Doubtless you possess more intimate knowledge of the country than that gathered in your journeys to and from the mines.” There was something in the way he gpoke that made plain his thoughts ;o Pushkin.

"I think I understand you, comrade,” he said. “Rely on me. 1 ” The night wore monotonously on. At early dawn hot tea and black jread were served to all, and an hour later a string of carts came slowly up the road, led by Captain Gorka. He violently upbraided the Cossacks for their blunder, but showed little concern for the poor wretches who bad been slain by the wolves. Preparations for departure were made in haste. Half a dozen of the Injured had died during the night, and tho bodies were allowed to remain in the snow. The Yeneseisk party was the first to start, and Alexis strained his eyes after the covered sledge that held his loved one as long as it remined in sight. When a bend in the road hid it from view he reluctantly turned his head and obeyed the sharp command to fall in.

CHAPTER X. The close of April witnessed the melting of Siberian snowdrifts and the breaking up of the ice-bound tfeva. While the convict hands to which Helen and Alexis belonged were tramping on through May and June towards their widely-separated destinations, enduring untold hardships, vividly contrasting scenes were taking place in the imperial city of St. Petersburg. The Czar and his Court were at Peterhof. The nobles and wealthy merchants hovered between their villas and the Gulf of Finland and their dearly-loved clubs in town. The stirring events of February had been forgotten, except by a few. A new man reigned in the place of , Inspector Sumaroff. Paul Daresofi and the assassin of the police spy Bulgarin were still at large. The police were of the opinion that they had escaped across the frontier. General Armfeldt, bent and haggard, could occasionally be seen tottering between his lonely mansion and the quays, attended by a faithful servant. He had resigned from active service, and seemed waiting for death to end the wreck of his life and happiness.

Stepan Sebranji, after his long absence in Smith America, was enjoying life in contentment and happiness. It is true that ho no longer spent large sums in dissipation and extravagance ; but ho still owned a horse and a yacht, and was exceedingly popular among the members of his several clubs. He was frequently invited to the suburban villas among the islands of the Nova, and therefore he spent but little - in his apartment®.

Perhaps it wz ss of business that chained Micha.l Korn, the lawyer, to his office, and caused the anxious, haggard look that was ever present on his features. At all events, he had forsaken the gaming table and discarded the costly beauties of the opera and ballet. He received frequent visits from shrewd-faced men, whose appearance stamped them as detectives. Ho held long and futile interviews with them, and each time the lines on his face seemed to deepen.

The gay life of which Cranbrook and Vivian found themselves a part during that summer was a severe and trying ordeal. The role that they were playing compelled them to be seen constantly at their clubs and at social functions. Their vivacity and ligbt-heartedness was only a mask, that concealed their gnawing grief

ana sorrow. On the afternoon of the 14th of August, as Cranbrook was about leaving the American Legation, a note was handed to him by a strange messenger, who immediately departed. The missive was pencilled in Maxime Valadon’s well-known hand, and contained the following instructions : Come to my apartments at nine o’clock to-night. Be at the street door exactly on the stroke of the hour.

Cranbrook lost no time in finding Vivian and acquainting him with the summons. The bell of St. Isaac’s struck the hour just as the two paused before the house. The door waa opened, and Maxime Valadon looked cautiously out. He beckoned his visitors up the steps, and pressed his fingers to his lips to indicate silence. Without a word he conducted them ta his apartment on the second floor, which was in utter darkness. He guided them to chairs and partly closed the door, leaving open a crack half a dozen inches wide. From where they sat Cranbrook and Vivian could see clearly into the hall. Above the stairway a gas jet, turned low, was burning.

His visitors were mystified., and it was with no expectation of what was to come that they riveted their gaze on the hall. Half an hour slipped by in profound silence. Then a door opened and shut overhead, and footsteps were heard descending the staircase from the third floor. A moment later a tall, bearded man, in perfect evening attire, passed rapidly across the strip of hall and descended, the stairs. He opened the street door, and vanished from sight and sound. Maxime Valadon rose and. lighted a lamp. He noiselessly closed the door and turned to his visitors.

"Well, you saw him?” he inquired. "You mean Stepan Sebranji ?” exclaimed Vivian, in a tone of surprise. "Why, we are intimately acquainted with him. We did not know, that he lodged here.” Granbrook looked puzzled. "That is true, Valadon,” he said. "We have met Stepan Sebranji on many occasions. But what does this mystery mean ?” ' "You will bear presently," replied the detective. “You say that you are on intimate terms with this Stepan Sebranji. Does his appearance remind you of no one else ?” “He bears a strong and remarkable resemblance to Captain Vassily Armfeldt, if that is what you mean,” replied Cranbrook,

"No ; I know nothing of that,” answered Valadon. "Think a moment. Does he not suggest the bearded assassin of the Samarkand inn ?” Cranbrook started- “ There is a resemblance,” he answered. "I never dreamt of it before. It would be much stronger if Stepan Sebranji were to discard his glasses, allow his beard and hair to grow to their full length, and muffle himself in a huge cloak.”

“Yes ; you are right.” excalimed Vivian. "I can detect; the likeness.” "But what do you mean, Valadon ?" demanded Cranbrook. “My head is in a whirl. Surely there can be no connection between Stepan Sebranji and the assassin ? Why, in that event Sebranji would be the man we are looking for —Count Nordhoff’s enemy !” “He is,” declared Valadon, in a triumphant voice. "It was Stepan Sebranji who stabbed the police spy at the Samarkand inn—who assassinated Inspector Sumaroff—who sent Count NordhoS and Ms intended wife to Siberia. Nor is that all. I have a still greater surprise for you. Stepan Sebranji is none other than the famous Terrorist, Paul Daresofl ! That is all now. Return sharp at once. There is work for us to do.”

At the hour named Cranbrook and Vivian were again with the detective. Presently they were joined by a short, stoutly-built man of about fifty, who wore a dark green uniform and a closely-cropped moustache. "Captain Baranofl, messieurs,” said the detective, in an impressive whisper.

The police captain shook hands with Cranbrook and Vivian, and muttered a few words. Then he followed Valadon to the rear room, where they held a brief and secret conversation. They returned shortly, and sat down just behind the others, to whom the detective handed a revolver apiece.

“It is always wise to be prepared," he whispered, “though I do not think it will be necessary to fire a single shot.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” muttered Captain Baranoff. “If this man is really Paul Daresof!, he will fight with whatever he can lay his hands upon.” This closed the conversation. For more than an hour the four silent watchers sat within the darkened room, with their eyea fixed on the lighted strip of hall without. Stepan Sebranji’s return was, of course, uncertain. He might arrive at any moment ; he might not come .until dawn.

About two o’clock a slight, creaking noise was heard towards the rear of the house. Valadon rose instantly and closed the door. A moment later soft footsteps came along the hall and then receded. After five minutes Valadon opened the door several inches. As he stood there he heard

distinctly the low sound of voices from the third floor. His companions also heard them. Presently the noise ceased, and all was silent. “My friends, something is wrong,” whispered Captain Baranoff. “Sebranji has entered the house by the rear way.” “It seems impossible,” replied Valadon, “and yet two persons were surely talking on the third: floor. It will be wise to go up. Come, let us start. First remove your shoes.” A moment later the little band crept down the hall in their, stocking feet. They softly ascended the rear staircase, Valadon and Captain, Baranoff

in advance. At the top they tound themselves opposite a partly-open door.

Glancing into the room, they saw Alphonse sitting at a large table,:under the glare of a lamp. He was clad only in shirt and trousers, and was writing feverishly. Ail round him were heaps of manuscript and open volumes.

Valadon made a gesture of silence and led his companions on. They turned an angle in the hall and saw Sebranji’s door twenty feet ahead of them. A bright light shone through the crevices.

Let us go back an hour. It wanted but a few minutes to one o’clock when Stepan Sebranji emerged from the portals of the Marine Club. He had been at the card-table for hours, and was poorer for it by several hundred roubles. Usually he won, and •this] novel experience disgusted him. He halted on the marble steps to light a cigarette.

“My nerves must be unstrung tonight,’*’ he muttered, as he glanced up and down the deserted street, searching vainly for a drosky. “If I go elsewhere I shall lose more money. For once I will retire early.”

As he descended to the pavement a slim young man darted forward and caught his arm. “At last!” he cried. “I have sought you at four clubs, Monsieur Sebranji, and it was only chance that brought me here.’*’

“Alphonse !” exclaimed the other, in a tone of great surprise ; “ what does this mean ? What is wrong ?”

The young Frenchman drew his companion under the shadow of a tree. "You will think me foolish, monsieur,” he began, stammeringly, “but—but I acted on the impulse of the moment. To-night I overheard part of a conversation in Maxime Valadon’s room. There was at least one stranger with him—possibly two —though I admitted none to the house. They mentioned your name often, and they spoke of the Imperial Bank and of a man named Karr. Possibly this Karr was one of the speakers. They also spoke of the police. I feared you might be in danger, monsieur. I came to warn you. That is,all.” Sebranji turned as pale as the white glow of the electric lamp that swung above the clubs portals. For a full minute he uttered no sound. Then he replied, in tones of forced calmness :

"I thank you, Alphonse. You have done me a service. It is not that I am in danger, but I have enemies, you see, and it is possible that they are plotting against me. What was the situation when you left ?" "I am satisfied that the visitor had left the house,” replied Alphonse. "Maxime Valadon’s door was closed, and there was a light only in his bedroom. You understand, monsieur, that I did not dare to play the spy. What I overheard was accidental.” "Of course,” answered Sebranji. “Come. I will accompany you home. We will go on foot. The fresh air will do me good. You have the keys to the rear entrance with you, Alphonse ? v “Yes, monsieur.” He jingled something in his pocket. They hastened along from street to street, and Sebranji kept a keen and constant look out in all directions. "It is too soon to be alarmed,” be reflected, "yet it is best to prepare for the worst. I understand the situation. That cursed cashier has made some discovery and rushed ofl to confide his suspicions to his old friend the Frenchman. Possibly they are on the right clue, though it seems impossible. At all events, I had better leave the city until I can get at the truth of the matter. I was a fool to continue my account at the Imperial Bank. Well, if it comes to the-worst, I can slip across the Prussian frontier. My work in Russia is over, though I confess to a love for the Imperial city.” It was two o’clock when Sebranji and his companion entered the house by the yard gate and the read door, both of which Alphonse locked behind him. They ascended the back staircase and paused on the second floor.

“One moment,” whispered Alphonse. He slipped up the hall and came quickly back. “All is dark in Maxime Valadon’s apartments,” he announced. "Doubtless he is sleeping soundly.” Sebranjl breathed a sigh of relief as he mounted to the third floor.

“Alphonse,” he whispered, “will you call me at eight o’clock ? I shall probably leave the city for a few days by an early train. I will have some instructions for you in the morning.”

“I will waken you in time,” replied Alphonse. “Remember, monsieur, that in all things I am at your service. You have but to command me. I shall be awake for an hour yet. I have a chapter that must be completed before dawn. I shall work all the better for my breath of fresh air.”

“You are a faithful friend, Alphonse,” whispered Sebranji, “Some day I shall reward your services.” He passed along the hall, and entered hia apartments. He lighted a lamp, in the sitting room, and after a moment or two of indecision 'he sat down at his desk.

“My mind is made up,” he muttered. “I will go away for a few days, and Alphonse shall apprise me of what takes place in my absence. He .is a faithful fellow, and can be trusted. Moreover, I have no time in which to hunt up my trusty spies. Since I have severed my connection with them, I do not even know where they could be found. The first thing is money.' I will draw a cheque to the order of Alphonse. I dare not make it too large for fear of strengthening Karr’s suspicions. Five thousand

roubles will be a sate amount. Alphonse will send me the money. Fortunately I have enough in my pocket for present expenses.”

He took a cheque-book from a drawer and began to write hastily. As he attached his signature and clapped a blotter over it, the door leading to the hall was flung open suddenly and without warning. Sebranji was sitting with his back to the door, and when he heard it open quickly and without a preliminary knock, he instantly concluded that the intruder was Alphonse. Nevertheless he felt a vague thrill of alarm, for Alphonse was usually very ceremonious. But he did not turn round until he had finished drying the cheque with the blotter. Then he leisurely pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

As he saw the four visitors standing just within the threshold of his room his face blanched and his arms dropped limply. He quickly recovered from the shock and took several steps forward. ‘‘This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, with perfect coolness and in a slightly ironical tone. ‘‘Be seated, gentlemen.” Maxime Valadon softly closed the door.

“This is hardly a proper hour to pay a visit, Stepan Sebranji,” he replied, “but our errand is urgent and must serve as an excuse. You are acquainted with Messieurs* Oranbrook and Vivian ? They are friends of Count Alexis Nordhofi.”

“Yes ; we have met frequently,” answered Sebranji. “I regret that I never had the pleasure of knowing the unfortunate Count Nordhofl.” Not a muscle moved as he spoke, nor did the slightest chance pass over his face.

“Count Nordhofl! was truly unfortunate,” resumed Valadon. “More than that, he was innocent. He was the victim of a fiendish conspiracy. But pardon me ; you also are acquainted with Captain Baranoff ?”

"I have not that honour,” replied Sebranji, in a suave and confident tone.

“Are you sure of that?” demanded the police captain, as he stepped closel to the lamp and removed his hat. “Reflect a moment. Let your thoughts go back three years. Try to recall the circumstances under which we last met. To me it is all as fresh as though it happened but yesterday. I have not forgotten you, Paul Daresofl !”

CHAPTER XI. Sebranji reeled against the desk, his face livid. But in another moment he straightened up and with assumed calmness opened the upper drawer of an oak cabinet. His hand swept quickly through its contents ; then in a flash he turned and made for the window that looked out on the street. “Stop !” Captain Baranoff’s voice rang sharply through the room. Sebranji turned and found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver at a distance of ten feet. The others had also drawn their weapons, and Cranbrook was alongside of the police captain.

■ “At the first move I will send a bullet through you,” declared Baranoff. “The game is up, Daresofi, and you may as well submit.” Sebranji realised that all hope was gone. The terrible ferocity of his nature came to the front in that moment of despair, and the cast of his* features remained indelibly stamped on the memory of his captors. But for the influence of the loaded weapons that were turned upon him, he would have fought like a tiger. As it was he wisely remained passive. “You are sensible, Sebranji,” said Valadon. “Baraofl tells the truth. We have you so tightly in the toils that there is no escape.” “You want something ?” returned Sebranji, quietly. “What is it ?” Cranbrook stepped impulsively forward, but was motioned back by Valadon, who took the answer upon himself.

“You are as shrewd as ever, Sebranji,” he replied. “Yes, we want something ; but first you will permit me to trace a few steps of your career since you returned from Siberia. On the night of the third of last February you stopped at the Samarkand inn before entering the city. You there murdered a police spy named Bulgarin, whom you doubtless suspected of penetrating your disguise. You were pursued and overtaken by Count Nordhoft. You might have shot him on the spot, but you hated him so bitterly that you reserved him for a worse fate. A week later you dealt the first blow by leading Miss Helen Armfeldt, his plighted wife, into a fatal trap. Then you and your confederates murdered Inspector Sumar--00, and cunningly contrived to have Count Nordhoff convicted of the crime and sent to Siberia. That is why you stand here a prisoner to-night unmasked by superior shrewdness and cunning.

Sebranji listened to the arraignment with arrogant calmness. He wasi apparently the most self-possessed person in the room. “You rehearse it well,” he replied, disdainfully. “Now it is my turn to question, Maxime Valadon. Will you submit to me one single proof of my complicity in the crimes you have mentioned, one jot of evidence that will prove me an enemy of Count Nordhofi ? When you do so, I shall fee prepared to consider any request that you wish to make. Until then my lips are sealed, and I defy you to do your worst. Take an empty revenge—if you wish it. Send me back to Siberia.”

Sebranji’s retort fell with crushing effect. He had spoken at a hazard, basing his confidence on the intricate precautions taken to cover his tracks ; but he knew instantly, by the palpable discomfiture on Maxime Valadon’s face, that the blow had struck.

Cranbrook groaned aloud, and Vivian dropped despondently into a chair. Captain Baranoft’s countenance did not change, but he knew at heart that the ease was hopeless. His trained intelligence had fathomed the prisoner’s drift. Valadon made a futile attempt to recover the lost ground.

“You are playing a bold game, Sebranji,” he said, “but we hold all the cards. We have already given you ample proof. At the proper time the links will be fitted together, and the chain will convict you.”

-Sebranji smiled contemptuously. He took a cigare'tte from his pocket and ignited it over the globe of the lamp.

“This interview is a needless waste of time,” he said. “It wearies me. Captain Baranofi, lam ready to accompany you to the Fortress. 1 ” The officer produced a pair of handcuffs and stepped forward, but Valadon .interposed between the two. “One moment, Sebranji,” he exclaimed. "You know that there can be no doubt in our minds as to your guilt on all the charges I have mentioned. Suppose I admit that I am unable to produce legal proof of the crimes that sent Count Nordhoff and Miss Armfeldt to Siberia—of the assassination of Bulgarin and Inspector gumaroff. In that event would you be willing to purchase escape from the certain fate that awaits you as the recaptured convict Paul Daresofl ?”

“That depends on the price,” replied Sebranji, as he puffed coolly at his cigarette. Valadon drew a chair in front of the desk, and pointed to ink and paper. “The price is this,’*’ he answered, decisively. “Sit down there, and write a full confession of the conspiracy abainst iCount Nordhofl and Helen Armfeldt. Describe the murder of Inspector Sumarofl. In short, write such a document as will bring back the innocent victims from Siberia and clear them of every shadow and suspicion. We are prepared to witness your signature.” “If I consent ?” curtly inquired Sebranji. “Then you are a free man,” replied Valadon. “Captain Baranoff will invent some plausible story of your escape to satisfy the authorities. You will have ample time to assume a disguise—to find a temporary hidingplace. Later on you can cross the frontier. I promise you, on my honour, that you shall have twelve hours start from the time you sign the confession. We will make no use of the document until the expiration of the limit.” “Bah ! What are twelve hours ?” sneered Sebranji. “You know very well that > I shall be captured sooner or later. And, besides, I am almost penniless. I have money in the bank —but that is not here.” “I will supply you with funds,” in-, terrupted Cranbrook, eagerly. “How much'do you wish ?” Sebranji turned to the young American with a mocking smile.

"I was jesting,” he replied. “ I want no money. I refuse your offer of escape. Listen, all of you.” He took a step forward and dashed his fist so forcibly on the desk that the pens and ink rattled. “I am not going to betray myself,” he cried, in sharp, hissing tones. “I will outwit you to the end. I hate Count Nordhoff. I would yield my life to see him torn limb from limb before my eyes. And sooner than lift one little finger to procure his release and that of the woman he loves, I will go back to Siberia—l will .suffer the tortures of the damned. As long as I know that his heart and body are racked with anguish I shall bear my fate contentedly. Now you have my answer. Weeks of pleading and promises will not change it. But bear one other thing in mind—Siberia will not hold me for ever. Some day I shall return, and when that time comes I shall have my revenge on all who helped to track me down. It will be something to live for. Now do your worst !” He folded his arms and smiled mockingly at his enemies. He was the victor ; they the vanquished. All knew that hope was gone—that more words would be futile. Valadon glanced menacingly at the officer. Vivian strode forward and confronted Sebranji. “You inhuman fiend !” he cried. “Have you no pity in your heartno mercy for the innocent whom you have sent to a living death ?” Sebranji made a gesture of disdain and turned to the officer.

“I tell you again that I am ready. Do your duty.” Captain Baranofl advanced, but before he could adjust the irons upon his prisoner Alphonse dashed into the room. His hair was dishevelled, his hands stained with ink ; a pen was perched behind his ear. He caught the whole scene at a glance—Baranoff’s police uniform, the glittering handcuff’s, the openly-displayed revolvers.

“Monsieur Valadon, is this how you trample upon my friendship?” he cried, in a tone of bitter resentment.“You shall repent it. Leave the house at once ! Ah, what a fool I have been ! Why did I answer your question ?” Valadon ‘grasped the excited young man by the arm. “Listen, Alphonse !” he exclaimed. “I was justified in all I did. There stands an assassin and an enemy of the Czar. His hands are staiped many times over with human blood. “It is false—false !” shrieked Alphonse. “Have I not known him for years?” Then he tore loose from the detective and knelt at Sebranji’s feet. “Forgive me, Stepan,” be cried, imploringly. “If I have helped to betray you, it was through ignorance. I would have cut off my right hand sooner than bring harm to you” “Traitor!” hissed Sebranji. “You' are playina a part. It is clever act-

ing, but it does not deceive me. ~xou purposely brought me here to-night in order that I should fall into the trap that you helped to set. You deserve a traitor’s death ; ay, and you shall have' it !”

Before anyone could lift a hand to interfere he stooped and caught the slender young Frenchman round the body, pinning his arms helplessly against his sides. A quick stride brought him to the window, and with all his might he dashed his victim forward. There was a smashing of glass and a rending of woodwork. Then, with a fearful cry on his lips, Alphonse shot through space to the hard pavement below. Sebranji turned and made a tigerish dash for the door. But he was instantly overpowered, and the handcuffs were locked upon his wrists. Shouts and hurrying footsteps already echoed from the street. The door was locked and a seal put upon it. Then the prisoner was led quickly downstairs. “You deserve the gallows for this,” said Valadon. “It was a fiendish crime and entirely unprovoked. I swear to you that Alphonse was innocent. He did all in his power to save you., and he has paid for his devotion with his life.”

Sebranji said nothing, but a look of unfeigned remorse came into his eyes, and he staggered blindly down the last few steps. Out in the street a little crowd had collected. Two men were carrying a body across the pavement. A jagged rent in the jeweller’s awning showed where Alphonse had fallen. Sebranji paused voluntarily by the side of his victim. He was trying to speak, but words had failed him, when Alphonse opened bis eyes and looked up. The glare of an adjacent lamp showed him the face of his murderer. He smiled and said, weakly : “I—l forgive you, Stepan. It was all a mistake. I was true to you. My great work was nearly done, but now —now I shall never finish it,” His eyes closed, and 'his head fell to one side. Sebranji groaned aloud. “Take me away,” he cried, hoarsely ; and- as his captors marched ham up the street they were amazed to see tears rolling down his cheeks.

' CHAPTER XII. On an afternoon in late October the hazy sun was shining on the valley of Algafital, not many miles from Irkutsk, the Siberian metropolis. A traveller coming suddenly over the crest of the hill, and knowing not the darker significance of the place, would have thought it a pretty picture—the grassy slopes falling to the tiny stream fringed with frost-bitten poplars' and birches ; the stockaded log buildings grouped under the fluttering folds of the Russian flag, the villa-like cottages that straggled along the trough of the valley, and the tiny, golden-domed church about which the village clustered.

But the ugly blot was there. Farther up the valley, just beyond the curve, the precipitous hillside was seared and scarred with pits and excavations. In one of the underground! passages of these, the dreaded silver mines of Nertschinks, the scene on that October afternoon offered an appalling contrast to the brightness of the outer landscape.

By the dull light of smoky lanterns scores of men in grey convict garb toiled with pick and shovel, or trundled barrows of,heavy ore along the gloomy avenues. Sullen-faced Cossacks stood about in groups, leaning on their rifles. Cruel overseers, armed with whips and clubs, were, constantly on the alert to prevent the wretched toilers from snatching a moment’s rest. The sound of blows and curses rose frequently above the creaking of barrows and ■ the clatter of pick and shovel. In' a lateral shaft which branched off some thirty feet from the main passage laboured a dozen convicts, each chained to a barrow. At the extreme end were Carl Pushkin and Alexis Nordhoff, looking more haggard and thin than, when we last saw them on the wintry\post road. The lantern’s dull glow showed their hope--less and stolid expressions as they went mechanically on with their work, picking out the clods of leadcoloured ore and shovelling them into the barrows.

They had become accustomed to it by this time. It was nearly the end of July when the remnant of the convict band to which they belonged reached the valley of Algafltal; and since then each day’s monotonous passage had been the same—so many hours of toil with pick and shovel; so many hours of rest in damp underground cells. Pood was scarce and poor ; blows and curses were plentiful.

And what of the intended escape so hopefully discussed as they plodded eastward through winter snows and spring freshets ? They had felt hope fade slowly from their hearts during the past three months of suffering and hardship. When they reached the mines they found that many changes had been made since Pushkin’s last, term of imprisonment. The wooden doors of the underground cells had been replaced by iron ones ; sentries patrolled the outer passage at night, and all the outlets of the mine were constantly guarded by armed Cossacks. (To be Continued.)