Within an ace : a story of Russia and nihilism

Front matter

7,

Ci _— <I Pr =x ypEt Th i

"yy

I

IN OTHER LANDS. ES eg GraREy, authoress of ‘‘ French Heroines,” t f Se ‘*Daughters of Italy.” Crown 8vo., cloth extra, bevelled boards, price 5.

‘‘Ts acharming book of travels.’”?—Morning Post.

“A pleasantly written book of reminiscences of foreign travel.”’—England.

‘* Will be heartily welcomed. The authoress writes pleasantly and gives some really clever sketches. We can bate eae recommend the book.”—John Bull.

PEN AND INK SKETCHES, from Ree to the North Cape. By Emity A. Jue Ste authoress of «Rambling Rhymes.”? Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 2s. 6

A HOLIDAY TOUR IN AUSTRIA. By the Rev. Henry Priuam Srokes, M.A., F.R.G.S. Picture cover, price 1s.

DIGBY & LONG’S ALBION LIBRARY.

A Popular Series of Shilling Books of hiction by the best Authors, issued at short intervals.

Votvme I.

A MEXICAN MYSTERY. A Novel. By W. Grove. Crown 8vo., picture cover, price ls.; cloth extra, price ls. 6d. (Tenth edition.) The Satur day Review says :—“‘ It is a shilling’s-worth which nobody will read and yet pretend that he has not had the value of ‘his money.” VouvumeE II.

THE WRECK OF A WORLD. A Novel. By W. Grover. Crown 8vo., picture cover, price 1s.; cloth extra, price ls. 6d. (Sixth edition).

Votvme ITI.

WITHIN AN ACE. A Story of Russia and Nihilism. By Marx Easrwoop. Crown 8yvo., picture cover, price ls.; cloth extra, price ls. 6d. {Just out.

DIGBY & LONG, Publishers, 18, Bouverie St., Fleet St., London, E.C.

THE NEWCASTLE DAILY CHRONICLE (the great Newspaper of the N orth) ° in speaking of good and wholesome fiction, refers to the ‘‘high reputation that Messrs. DIGBY & LONG enjoy for the publication of first-class novels,”

Messrs. DIGBY & LONG’S NEW BOOKS,

At all Libraries and Booksellers in Town & Country.

A MODERN MILKMAID. A Novel. By the Author of “ Commonplace Sinners.” In 8 vols., crown 8vo., 31s. 6d.

WILDWATER TERRACE. A Novel. By Rearatp E. Sanwey. In 2 vols., crown 8vo., 21s.

JOHN BOLT, INDIAN CIVIL SERVANT; A Tale of Old Haileybury and India. By R. W. Lopwicx, Late Bombay Civil Servant. In 2 vols., crown 8vo., 21s. 4

MRS. DANBY KAUFMAN OF BAYSWATER. A Society Novel. By Mrs. Marx Hersert. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 6s,

MRS. LINCOLN’S NIECE. A Novel. By Anne Lupron, author of ‘“* Whispers from the Hearth.” Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 6s.

FORRESTON. A Novel. By Newron Tempzst. Crown 8v0., cloth extra, price 8s. 6d.

BENEATH YOUR VERY BOOTS. A Novel. By C. J. Hyrnz, author of ‘‘Currie, Curtis & Co., Crammers.” Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 6s. (Second Edition.)

ERIC ROTHERHAM. A Novel. By Mrs. Witutam D. HALL, author of “‘ Marie.” Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 6s.

OTHO; OR, CLASPED BY A TOPAZ AND A PEARL. A Novel. By Mrs. Janarra LETITIA BRown. Crown 8vo.. cloth extra, price 6s,

THE KISSES OF AN ENEMY. A Novel. By Mary Smrru. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 6s. ; ;

HIDDEN IN THE LIGHT. A Realistic Novel. By Evarnr Stracry. Crown 8vo., picture boards, 2s., cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

LAURA MONTROSE. A Novel. By Aveta May. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 3s. 6d.

THE REDHILL MYSTERY. A Novel. By Kare Woop, author of ‘“‘ Lorry Bell,” ‘A Waif of the Sea,” ‘“ Winnie's Secret,” &c. Crown 8vo., Cloth extra, price 3s. 6d.

SAVED BY A LOOKING GLASS. A Novel. By Enear H. Wetts. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 3s. 6d.

SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A SAILOR. By Lawrence Cave. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 2s. 6d.

ONLY A FISHER MAIDEN. A Novel. By A. Macxnicur. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, price 2s. 6d.

A GIPSY SINGER. A Novel. By Warren Townsuenp. Crown 8vo.. cloth extra, price 2s. 6d.

THE MYSTERY OF CROWTHER CASTLE, and other Stories. By G. W. H. Firmsronr. Crown 8yo., cloth extra, price 2s.

FOR THE GOOD OF THE FAMILY. A Novel. By Katz Eyrg, author of ‘A Step in the Dark,” “A Fool’s Harvest,”’ ** To be Given up,” &c. Crown 8vo., paper cover, price ls.

WAX. A Novel, By Atret Horr. Crown 8vo., picture cover, 1s.

DIGBY & LONG, Publishers, 18, Bouverie Street, Fleet Street,

LONDON €E.C.

coh

MAGNOLIA

-MATCHLESS FOR THE COMPLEXION.

A Marvellously Unique Preparation for Softening, Toning, and Beautifying the Skin.

Renders it Beautiful to the Eye, and deliciously soft. Can be used with the most perfect safety to any child.

In Bottles, post free, 2s. 6d., 438, ‘7s. and 10s. 6d., or Sample Bottles, post free, 1s. 3d. direct from the Proprietor,

JOHN STEEDMAN, 154, QUEEN’S ROAD,

BAYSWATER, LONDON, WV.

And of all Chemists, Perfumers, and Stores throughout the World.

PSTABLISEED 1896.

Ladies once using this Preparation will never be without it.

DIGBY & LONG’S ALBION LIBRARY, VOL. III.

WITHIN AN AGE.

A Story of Russia and Nihilism, bY

MARK EASTWOOD.

THIRD EDITION.

London: PaibyY AND LONG, PUBLISHERS 18, BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C.

fADL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

C ON EE N-LS:

XXJ. Into THE SUNLIGHT ., é ; , J Ge

WITHIN AN ACE.

+ Ee )

Chapter I. My Execution

It is a patch of sunlight—a tiny patch, no larger than the palm of my hand. I dreamily follow the bar of glistening motes upwards, until my eyes are arrested by the grated window of a prison |

In an instant I have sprung from my low pallet, where—God is pitiful!—I have been sleeping away the last few hours that were left me of my mortal existence. Yes, in very truth—I dream not. IT stand here on my prison floor, in full possession of all my faculties, feeling the warm, swift blood coursing in my veins. I draw vigorous breath, my senses are acute. I look with keen appreciation at the wondrous golden ladder which the sun is sending down direct into my cell. What a fair world is ours! How fair a thing is even a single sunbeam! I stretch out my hands, and lave them in this one, that is all my own, whilst visions of summer woods come to me, where whole showers of them burst through fine tracery of branches, to play on the mossy carpet below.

There, on the bosom of that sequestered pool, on whose brink I was wont to linger, the sunbeams lie smiling in sleep. In yon restless, murmuring stream they sport with merry laughter as they twinkle in and out amongst the pebbles. On that flowery bank they rest in day-dreams.

My eyes wander wistfully up to my bit of sky. How blue it is! How sweet and balmy will be the air this glorious summer’s morning! TI shall feel it on my cheek when they lead us forth to the gallows around which surges a sea of humanity, all eyes eager and curious to see how we die!

At this thought my mood changes. I draw in my breath with a mighty determination swelling my heart. Of a sudden I seem imbued with the nervous strength of ten!

“Yes, let them gaze! ‘They shall see a man meet death. I will show them!” I exult.

I look down on my powerful frame with grim satisfaction. I grasp the muscles of my long, powerful arms, and rejoice that they are like bands of iron. I long to snatch at some heavy weight, that I may hurl it above my head to test their strength. Never before have I so gloried in this creat gift of vigorous manhood as in this last hour of its existence, because by means of it I may show my brothers of the cause of liberty how cheerfully I resign it.

I fall to pacing the narrow limits of my cell with rapid strides. Sit still I cannot. A burning impatience of inaction is consuming me—a pressing desire to be doing something to bridge over the minutes which must elapse before the moment arrives when I shall stride to the scaffold, with dauntless mien, to meet my doom. My acute sense of hearing detects the clink, faint though it be, of the trap in my door, and I turn towards it my gaze. A pair of eyes are looking at me out of a brown, bearded face that I know quite well. There isa twinkle of humour in it, and something else that looks like compunction. I smile and nod affably.

“Good morning, Vladimir Alexandrovitch. I am glad to see you in good spirits,” says my official.

“And I thank you for your good wishes, my friend,” I reply. ‘“ But my breakfast? I tell you, I have a fierce hunger upon me, and hope you mean to give me something good. Remember it will be the last time I shall have the pleasure of gratifying my keen appetite, until I take my first meal of nectar and ambrosia, and they might chance to keep me long waiting for it on the other side.”

My official laughs. ‘‘ Keep your mind easy, your breakfast comes ; and look you,” lowering his voice, “just because I love a brave spirit, little brother, I will deprive myself of some caviar I have in reserve for my own relish, and give it for yours. May you enjoy it as well as I should have done!”’

“Thanks, my Christian friend!” I cry, reaching my hand towards him through the trap. “ May you never die hungry! But quick, let me have it, that I may not quit the world with a pang of regret.”

He is going.

“One minute,’ I say, for it strikes me that this man who seems kindly disposed towards me, may tell me what I long to know. “Tell me, if you know—if you have seen him—the lad—keeps he a good heart?” My voice shakes in my eagerness, whilst I rifle my pockets for my last five-rouble note. ‘“ Take it, it is all I have, or I would give you more. How bears he himself? He is but nineteen!”

“‘T saw him even now,” replies the man, as he seizes the note. “Hedoesbadly. Heeatsnot, and his strength has left him. He lies on his bed and moves not.”

At these words the sweat starts to my brow, and the water to my eyes.

‘Friend, good friend,” I whisper hoarsely, ‘‘ for love of God, see him again! ‘Tell him that Vladimir Alexandrovitch bids him be brave! ‘Tell him to eat —he must eat ere he go forth! Andoh, good friend! if thou wilt, if thou canst—and surely thou canst ?— procure for him some cognac.’

‘You know not what youask,” interrupts the man, in a sullen whisper, and glancing fearfully up and down the corridor. ‘‘I dare not, I cannot! Where, think you, could I get cognac here ? I risk much even now in speaking thus to you.”

Again he glances up and down; then, as if bracing himself to a resolve, he signs to me to bend down, and puts his mouth close to my ear.

‘“Jaisten. I will take your message, just because you are a brave one, and I lke you. And if vodki will do—it is quite as potent—I have a dram in my flask. But it must not be too much, he is weak.”

‘““T embrace thee, my brother!’ I murmur fervently ; and he hurries away.

IT am alone again, and continue my walk ; but now my mind is troubled with a vision of the fairfaced boy stretched on his pallet, and anon I seem to see his writhing body on the gallows. I shudder and smother a groan that rises to my lips, and turn to seek comfort in the reflection that it will soon be over for him. ‘ He is sure to faint. God grant it!”

Approaching steps in the corridor. My door is unlocked, thrown open, and here is my breakfast and the caviar.

When the official enters I wear a smiling face again, for I have a character to sustain. No man should have it to say that he saw a cloud on the brow of Vladimir Alexandrovitch Lubanoff on the morning of his execution.

I am little inclined to eat—a feverish excitement is choking appetite—yet I eat a hearty meal. The official, a stranger to me, has paused at the door, and is watching me curiously.

“How long now before the play begins, my friend ?”’ I ask between the bites.

It gratifies me to note how he flushes red, and stares at me a space, as if taken aback, before he stammers, “‘ 'T'wenty minutes, Excellency.”

Tlaugh. The notion of an official thrusting a title on a prisoner amuses me. After another prolonged stare he leaves me.

Twenty minutes! Half-an-hour hence I shall bea lump of cold, senseless clay! And that mysterious actuating essence we call soul, what of it? What will become of it, forced from the tenement wherein it has, for twenty-seven years, ruled supreme? Will it, too, be extinguished like a torch that is stamped out under the foot of man? Away vain speculations, that to mortals can never be more than such! Let me rather, in these my last moments, sum up the good that has been mine. I have tasted as much happiness as this world can offer, and I leave it ere it begins to pall. I have known the rare blessing of true friendship. ‘‘ My spirit flies out to meet thee, O my friend, and clasp thee in a farewell embrace! ”’ I have—I still rejoice in the beauty and perfect excellence of woman’s pure and entire love!

“Ah, my Maruscha, thou art my only regret. Could I but take thee with me, my dove! My better soul! For I know that without me thy life henceforth will be but a joyless groping through a valley where there is no sun.”’

I am surprised by a tear on my cheek, and dash it hastily away. Boom! It is the quarter bell sounding from the fortress clock. I close my eyes, and gradually a feeling of peace descends on me. Now Ican pray. My hands meet and interlace.

“Spirit of perfect Good, forgive me my sins. Fortify me and my comrades in our last agony. Let the evil we have done perish with our bodies, and the good return to dwell eternally with Thee !”’

I hear the tramp of soldiery approaching, and raise high my head. ‘“Maruscha, thou shalt not blush for me!’’ I whisper, and I feel that it is a radiant face I show them as they enter—I know by the blank, fixed gaze which greets me on every side —of sheer wonderment. I advance to meet my executioner, place my arms in position, and silently submit to be pinioned. Not a word is spoken, and in a minute we are ready, and passing in file along the corridor to join the others in the hall of the prison.

I cast- a swift glance from face to face of my fellow-martyrs, which is answered by a flash of recognition and greeting from all save one, and that is poor Vasil. He is a sorry spectacle: his blue eyes roll vaguely, without speculation; his ashen lips hang apart. A gendarme is supporting him.

We are side by side. ‘“ Vasil!’’ I whisper.

He starts as if from some awful dream. Our eyes meet. He gives a great gasp, sets his lips tightly, and pulls himself together, and I am _ suddenly wheeled round and placed in the front.

Then our last walk begins—through the court, out of the gates into the great open space, where straight in front rises the long platform, and on it the gallows!

Sudden as a flash, a shock of horror seizes me. Only now, with my terrible doom before my seeing eyes, do I fully realise it. To be hanged by the neck! Merciful God, stand by me! But as sudden my soul cries to my shrinking body, ‘‘ What, art going to fail now ?”’ and I check the shudder that is already holding me, draw up my body to its full height, and march steadily forward.

The steps to the platform creak beneath my heavy tread. I stand high above the heads of the people, and overlook them. Their thousand upturned faces are like the white waves of a troubled ocean. Which is Maruscha’s? My eager glances skim the multitude in search of it.

It is there! Quite near me. I could almost kiss it by bending far forward. It is white. Ah! how white! but firm. The eyes are full of tenderness ; they are melting with love unspeakable, but they are strong! Our hearts meet and mingle for one brief moment, then I tear mine away. I have a word to say before I die. I step forward to the edge of the platform, and cry:

‘‘ Brothers, I repent not! I die joyfully for the cause of liberty.”

‘The multitude stir and murmur like a forest of trees swayed by the wind. The drums roll out in deafening peal. Already the executioner’s hands are

WITHIN AN ACE. g upon me. I cast one last look around on Maruscha, and up at the sky.

Something is pulled over my eyes. I am hastily placed in position beneath the gallows, which I know to be at the right end of the platform. A momentary pause. I feel with one excruciating thrill of horror the touch of the loose rope on my neck. A stupendous shock as of a crashing blow,— a noise as of many rushing waters in my ears,—a feeling as if my head was bursting asunder,—before my eyes a million whirling planets, whilst I plunge madly for a footing. Yet Ido not die! I seem to suffer an eternity of agony before it gives place to stupefaction, and I pass away.

Chapter II. The Day After Death

FaIntuy, fearfully my spirit is fluttering in and out of the deserted house from whence it has been driven, uncertain to go or stay, giving me the faintest hint of my identity, to leave me again in darkness, yet returning each time with greater confidence, until it finally stays to feebly spread itself from heart to brain, and I realise that Iam I!

But where am I? Under what conditions do I now hold my being? My faculties are so numb, SO vague, so wavering, that for some time my curiosity is not strong enough to induce me to open my eyes in search of knowledge. When at length I do so, I discover that my eyelids are of lead, and difficult to lift, and that I am in outer darkness.

Next I try to move, though it costs me an effort. My body feels as if swollen to an enormous size, there is not space for it in this strange abode—I am oppressed for space. I strive to make elbow-room. What is this? I lack room! I stretch out my

10 WITHIN AN AGE, stiffened arms, and come in contact with—great God—it is my coffin! Iam all therenow! From all my pores the cold sweat is bursting. My brain is on fire as recollection rushes upon me—the gallows, my death-agony, and the appalling conviction that I have been cut down too soon and buried alive !

In my wild anguish I fight out madly with both hands; but, strange, I fight the air! There is no lid, then, to my coffin! I writhe myself into a sitting posture, and there dawns for me a glimmer of hope.

Cautiously I begin to feel about me, growing every moment more mystified, for my hand comes in contact with a wooden surface, on which the coffin evidently stands. Though I am in my coffin, I certainly am not in my grave! Where, then, am I?

A ray of light shoots suddenly from behind me across the gloom, revealing one side of the rough deal shell in which I sit, a strip of the table on which it rests, and facing me a door. I follow with my tortured eyeballs the beam, and see that it is the moon shining through a small window. There is a door and a window, then, in my mysterious abiding-place! The hope leaps instantly into vigorous being, and with it the determination to escape. I feel strongly about this second life of mine, that it is a divine gift direct from the hands of God. To have to yield it up now would be to die ten thousand deaths. My other life I risked on a forlorn hope, and lost. There was justice in it. I knew the penalty, and had counted the cost. I suffered death in its most degrading, most awful form, and have therefore paid in full. I have satisfied the law, therefore this life I hold is all my own, and to the last drop of my blood I will protect and defend it. This is my view of the case, but as the Russian Government would assuredly take avery different one, the sooner I get my precious self out of this, and hidden away from its ken,

WITHIN AN ACH. 11 the better. Still sitting up in my coffin, I try by successive efforts of my confused brain to guess at my situation.

I am in some out-house adjoining either a dissecting-room or the residence of some doctor who has purchased my body for dissection. There are two means of exit, a door and a window. The former will be certainly locked, and quite as certainly my strength will not be equal to forcing it, even if I dared venture on making the noise. The window—I again turn towards it—is a casement. Alas, for my broad shoulders: it is small! However, itis my one chance. I must try it. As we are in summer when the nights are short, it must be the dead hour. I have no time to lose. I lsten attentively, preparatory to making the attempt. I hear the sough of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the creak of a branch, but human sounds there are none. A cloud must have flitted over the moon, for it is pitch dark again.

Presently I begin to scramble out of the coffin, and feel my way to the edge of the table next the door. I will try it first, though I am sure it will be locked. I drop my stiffened legs to the floor.

Just as I thought, it is fast. The window then, or—God knows what! Blindly, and clinging to it for support—for now that Iam in Anca reel like a drunken man—I make the half circuit of the table, reach the window, and seek with my shaking fingers for button or hasp, and there is a rush of cool night air onmy brow. It revivesme somewhat, and now for it! I set my teeth, and raise myself with my hands by the frame, thrusting out my head and part of my shoulders. Then | pause to gather up my forces. Something taps my crown, making my heart leap to my mouth. It is only the swaying bough of a tree! Another violent effort and my shoulders stick fast !

And now commences a fearful struggle. It is almost as bad as hanging—the sensations are certainly similar—eyeballs starting, skull bursting, and legs plunging aimlessly, until a frantic kick backwards brings my foot unexpectedly in contact with the edge of the table, and—I get a purchase.

I strain every sinew. There is a cracking and crunching which I imagine to be my shoulderblades, and I am precipitated forward, carrying the window-frame with a crash to the ground, where I lie, cut, bruised and panting, expecting each moment to hear the stir of aroused and excited humanity. Yet, strange inconsistency of human nature, in spite of my suffermgs and my supreme anxiety, the ludicrousness of my situation strikes me, and I shake with hysterical laughter, as I picture the sensation I should create if found. A dog barks. I lie motionless and await the issue. In fact, at this moment, if the whole legion of the Russian Police were on my track, and a step would save me, I could not take it. I have, however, one source of congratulation, that a corpse being beyond suspicion—least of all a hanged one—a disturbed household would scarcely be likely to seek for a possible burglar in the doctor’s dead-house.

The barking declines into short, undecided snaps, and finally ceases. There is no sound now save the wind tussling with the trees and bushes that enclose me. No; what is that? I mistake not—it is, it is the faint music of trickling water! My very soul longs forit! Myswollen and parched tongue makes a futile effort to lick my lips.

My friends, not one of you, I am quite sure, has ever been hung! You know not what it is to have every gland in your neck, the roof of your tongue, your windpipe in a state of raging inflammation, combined with a sensation as though every nerve that spreads like a network over your skull is being tugged at by a thousand sportive devils! Therefore no words of mine can convey to you the fierceness the intensity of this longing for a single cup of cold water! I pant, I groan aloud, as I begin feebly and by infinitesimal degrees to drag myself towards the sound, with the great dread upon me that every effort will be my last, that I must succumb ere I have wetted my lips!

Oh, Dives, we are brothers in the quality of this suffering !

At length, putting out my shaking hand, I feel the ground moist. Another movement, and yet another, and I come in contact with a cool iron tank! Still one desperate effort—to save my soul I could do no more—and I have dragged myself up by its edge. My fingers are in water, my lips touch it!

I take—ah, what a draught! and sink to the ground again, whilst tears I cannot check rush to my eyes— a perfect torrent of unspeakable relief.

A peal of distant thunder and a large drop of rain on my face arouse me. I sit up, and think what is to be done. I have no time to lose. Ina short time the dawn will break and reveal my terrific aspect. If I am seen in my present plight, shoeless, hatless, half clad, I shall be at once seized and put under restraint as a madman.

I scramble to my feet. That drink has wonderfully revived me! And a moment I pause to lave © my temples in the water before starting on my hazardous venture.

To get out from amongst the trees and ascertain my whereabouts must be my first step; so I commence to feel my way along the wall until I turn the corner of my recent prison, where I find more trees and bushes to wind through, and at length emerge under the open sky, on what appears to be a gravel drive. I can dimly discern the outlines of things near me, and within a few feet of me the sleeping-box of the Dvornik, which impels me to beat a hasty retreat in amongst the trees again. Now I begin moving in a slanting direction, with a view to arriving at the garden wall, guided thither by the locality of the watchman’s box; and I eventually come against it ; but, alas! my hopes of escape are on the wane again—it is too high to scale! Baffled, but still determined, I set my teeth, and follow the wall. If I must surrender I will make a desperate fight for it. The wall may not be all the same height ; I will examine it further.

Presently I come out on a path, and before me is a long, low shed, open to the front. ‘“Itis a gardener’s tool-shed,” I surmise, and swift as light follows the thought: ‘‘ Here I shall surely find something to aid me!”

I grope my way in, and just then, as if sent by a merciful Providence, the moon breaks through a cloud-rift, and shows me, within my grasp, a gardener’s light ladder. In a moment it is dark again. But I have the ladder, and the darkness is just what T want.

It is the work of a few moments to place the ladder in position, to mount it, and drop to the other side, though for a full minute after I drop, I lean for support against the wall, unconscious of everything save the overwhelming shock of pain in my head. It is my head—my head! If only it fail me not, I ’ have confidence in my legs, uncertain though they be, to carry me whither I mean to go.

When I am able to open my eyes I at once recognise the locality, for I am as familiar with Petersburg as a school-boy with the interior of his trousers’ pockets. Jam in the very heart of the city. This is the Nevski Prospect, and I stand outside the extensive grounds of Professor Schleemann, one of the first surgeons we have, and second to few in the world.

‘“And so you have purchased the body of your old pupil for dissection, little father !’” I smile grimly. “And I am a thief, for I am stealing it from you.”

The light of a street lamp shines full on me, I retire quickly out of its radiation, and pause to consider my next move.

My object has been, since quitting the shady retreat of my coffin, to make for the quarters of my friend Ivan Ivanovitch Kolinsky, there to lie in hiding until I should have sufficiently regained my forces to fly the country ; now, however, come what may of it, I must change my plans. Ivan lodges fully three versts from here; to reach him I should have to traverse many streets and run many risks, even if my strength held out, which is more than doubtful. I puta hand to my raging temples, and pass in review the different members of our section. In the urgency of the case I may not indulge preference ; the nearest must be my destination. It is none other than Maruscha! Yes, to gain her lodging is my only chance, for I can gain it in twenty minutes if I am fortunate, and fate is propitious. It is the utmost I can do. My love lives at this end of the ‘“‘ Bazar”’ over a furrier’s shop. I think now with anguish of the last time I took tea with her, I and Ivan, in the little sitting-room, with its many pretty feminine toys, so tastefully arranged and redolent of the flowers we had brought her. Slinking along, a wretched outcast, without a spot on carth under the heavens where I have a right to bo, I recall that picture now of Maruscha sitting behind her “Samovar”’ and pouring out the tea for us big, awkward fellows, where we sit together on the sofa, watching all her dainty ways in happy wonderment. How sweet and fresh she looks in her blue gown, with the snowy bands clasping her neck and slender wrists! 'There is colour on her fair cheeks, and her blue eyes are shining very brightly, for she is halfshy at playing hostess. But after tea we are very merry. Ivan has brought his violin, and we have music. I still hear the tones of Maruscha’s mellow voice as it blends with our harsher ones. And now ? Will she not fear me, shrink from me? How shall