LITMIR.BIZ

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assailant?”

      “I have promised him,” was her simple answer.

      “And this Gustave? You love him? Tell me all about him. Remember, I am your friend, and will help you if I can.”

      She hesitated, and I was compelled to urge her again and again ere she would speak.

      “Well, he is French—from Paris,” she said at last, as we still stood before the bomb-maker’s bench. “He is a chemist, and being an Anarchist, came to us, and joined us in the Revolution. The petards thrown over the barricades to-day were of his make, but he had to fly. He left yesterday.”

      “For Paris?”

      “Ah! how can I tell? The Cossacks may have caught and killed him. He may be dead,” she added hoarsely.

      “Which direction has he taken?”

      “He was compelled to leave hurriedly at midnight. He came, kissed me, and gave me this,” she said, still holding the shining little bomb in her small white hand. “He said he intended, if possible, to get over the hills to the frontier at Satanow.”

      I saw that she was deeply in love with the fugitive, whoever he might be.

      Outside, the awful massacre was in progress we knew, but no sound of it reached us down in that rock-hewn tomb.

      The yellow lamp-light fell upon her sweet, dimpled face, but when she turned her splendid eyes to mine I saw that in them was a look of anxiety and terror inexpressible.

      I inquired of her father and mother, for she was of a superior class, as I had, from the first moment, detected. She spoke French extremely well, and we had dropped into that language as being easier for me than Russian.

      “What can it matter to you, sir, a stranger?” she sighed.

      “But I am interested in you, mademoiselle,” I answered. “Had I not been, I should not have fired that shot.”

      “Ah yes!” she cried quickly. “I am an ingrate! You saved my life;” and again she seized both my hands and kissed them.

      “Hark!” I cried, startled. “What’s that?” for I distinctly heard a sound of cracking wood.

      The next moment men’s gruff voices reached us from above.

      “The Cossacks!” she screamed. “They have found us—they have found us!” and the light died out of her beautiful countenance.

      In her trembling hand she held the terrible little engine of destruction.

      With a quick movement I gripped her wrist, urging her to refrain until all hope was abandoned, and together we stood facing the soldiers as they descended the stairs to where we were. They were, it seems, searching every house.

      “Ah!” they cried, “a good hiding-place this! But the wall was hollow, and revealed the door.”

      “Well, my pretty!” exclaimed a big leering Cossack, chucking the trembling girl beneath the chin.

      “Hold!” I commanded the half-dozen men who now stood before us, their swords red with the life-blood of the Revolution. But before I could utter further word the poor girl was wrenched from my grasp, and the Cossack was smothering her face with his hot, nauseous kisses.

      “Hold, I tell you!” I shouted. “Release her, or it is at your own peril!”

      “Hulloa!” they laughed. “Who are you?” and one of the men raised his sword to strike me, whilst another held him back, exclaiming, “Let us hear what he has to say.”

      “Then, listen!” I said, drawing from my pocket-book a folded paper.“Read this, and look well at the signature. This girl is under my protection;” and I handed the document to the man who held little Luba in his arms. It was only my Foreign Office passport, but I knew they could not read English and that it was a formidable screed, with its coat-of-arms and visa.

      The men, astounded at my announcement, read what they took to be some all-powerful ukase beneath the lamp-light, and took counsel among themselves.

      “And who, pray, is this Jewess?” inquired one.

      “My affianced wife,” was my quick reply. “And I command you at once to take us under safe escort to General Krasiloff—quickly, without delay. We took refuge in this place from the Revolution, in which we have taken no part.”

      I saw, however, with sinking heart, that one of the men was examining the bomb-maker’s bench, and had recognised the character of what remained there.

      He looked at us, smiled grimly, and whispered smoothly to one of his companions.

      Again, in an authoritative tone, I demanded to be taken to Krasiloff; and presently, after being marched as prisoners across the town, past scenes so horrible that they are still vividly before my eyes, we were taken into the chief police-office, where the hated official, a fat, red-faced man in a general’s uniform—the man without pity or remorse, the murderer of women and children—was sitting at a table. He greeted me with a grunt.

      “General,” I said, addressing him, “I have to present to you this order of my sovereign, King Edward, and to demand safe conduct. Your soldiers found me and my—”

      I hesitated.

      “Your pretty Jewess—eh?” and a smile of sarcasm spread over his fat face. “Well, go on;” and he took the paper I handed him, knitting his brows again as his eyes fell upon the Imperial arms and the signature.

      “We were found in a cellar where we had hidden from the revolt,” I said.

      “The place has been used for the manufacture of bombs,” declared one of the Cossacks.

      The General looked my pretty companion straight in the face.

      “What is your name, girl?” he demanded roughly.

      “Luba Lazereff.”

      “Native of where?”

      “Of Petersburg.”

      “What are you doing in Ostrog?”

      “She is with me,” I interposed. “I demand protection for her.”

      “I am addressing the prisoner, sir,” was his cold remark.

      “You refuse to obey the request of the King of England? Good! Then I shall report you to the Minister,” I exclaimed, piqued at his insolence.

      “Speak, girl!” he roared, his black eyes fixed fiercely upon her. “Why are you in Ostrog? You are no provincial—you know.”

      “She is my affianced wife,” I said, “and in face of that document she need make no reply to any of your questions. Read what His Majesty commands.”

      “Thank you, sir. I have already read it.” But I knew he could not read English.

      A short, stout little man, shabbily dressed, pushed his way forward to the table, saying—

      “Luba Lazareff is a well-known revolutionist, your excellency. The French maker of bombs, Gustave Lemaire, is her lover—not this gentleman. Gustave only left Ostrog yesterday.” The speaker was, it was plain, an agent of secret police.

      “And where is Lemaire now? I gave orders for his arrest some days ago.”

      “He was found this morning by the patrol on the road to Schumsk, recognised and shot.”

      At this poor little Luba gave vent to a piercing scream, and burst into a torrent of bitter tears.

      “You fiends!” she cried. “You have shot my Gustave! He is dead—dead!”

      “There was no doubt, I suppose, as to his identity?” asked the General.

      “None, your Excellency. Some papers found upon the body have been forwarded to us with the report.”

      “Then

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