Table of Contents

- CHAPTER I

- CHAPTER II

- CHAPTER III

- CHAPTER IV

- CHAPTER V

- CHAPTER VI

- CHAPTER VII

- CHAPTER VIII

- CHAPTER IX

- CHAPTER X

William Murray Graydon

Banished to Saghalien

Munsey's Magazine 7(5): 581-628 (August, 1892)

CHAPTER I

The headquarters of the Imperial Club of St. Petersburg, a membership in which is equivalent to a certificate of high standing in society, are situated on the Grand Morskaia, the Fifth Avenue of the Russian capital.

During the week an average of eighteen or twenty habitués may be found in its gorgeous apartments, but Friday is par excellence the club day, and it is then no uncommon occurrence to see from one to two hundred members present.

On a certain Friday in the early part of March, 1890, the usual routine was followed without variation. From three to four o'clock the jeunesse dorée assembled at the broad windows to view and comment upon the procession of stylish equipages that passed and repassed in the street without, which was filled with the beauties of the Russian capital, who sat languidly amid the costliest of furs. At four o'clock the preliminary standing lunch was taken. An hour later the company sat down at the long tables, and after drinking the health of the Emperor attacked with gusto the joints of beef, the roasted pigs, sterlets from the Volga, and other appetizing dishes, washing them down with copious libations of kummel, French wines, and rye beer.

From the dining table the guests hurried to the whist room, there to take their seats for the night; and now, close to the morning hour, the play was at its height. Waxen candles spluttered in harmony with the hissing of gas jets, whose glare was dimmed by clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke. From all quarters of the room came a curious medley of sound — the blending of eager voices, the clink of glasses, the rattle of golden coin, and the soft fall of the cards as they dropped on the polished mahogany.

Around a table near the end of the room sat four persons, with one of whom, at least, the coming pages of this narrative will deal.

Maximy Petrov was a man of colossal stature, with broad shoulders and an immense chest. His face, of the purest Russian type, wore a not unpleasant expression. His evening dress became him well, and his short blonde beard had few gray hairs to testify to the fifty years of life he had seen.

Maximy Petrov belonged to an old and honored family. He was immensely wealthy, and his standing in St. Petersburg society was of the highest. A good judge of character might have concluded that his disposition was covetous and miserly, for tonight his eyes sparkled as they glanced from the cards he was holding to the stack of gold coins by his side. Perhaps his unconcealed high spirits were due to the fact that he was in the best of company. Directly opposite him sat Count Paul Melikoff, while on his right and left were Ilarion Reschagin, Minister of the Interior, and Captain Alexander Saltstein, of the Imperial Guard.

Each player had about him the surroundings necessary for his enjoyment — the glass of tea; the silver case chased with monograms and coronets and filled with cigarettes; the stick of chalk and the brush, for marking down losses and gains.

Conversation was limited to monosyllables as the game progressed, and all eyes were riveted on the cards. A clock stood on a mantel near by, and at the very instant that its hands indicated the half hour after eleven, a short, thick set man with a smooth face entered the apartment from the farther end, and after a hasty survey of the scene came straight to the table where Maximy Petrov and his companions sat. He tapped the former on the shoulder, and whispered a few words in his ear. Petrov turned visibly pale, and rose to his feet.

"You — you will excuse me, gentlemen?" he stammered confusedly, looking from one to the other.

His intended departure was viewed with consternation. It would upset the game. His friends were too polite to say so, but their faces expressed annoyance.

Seeing this Petrov added: "It is a matter of importance, gentlemen, else I should not—"

"In that case we forgive you," interrupted Count Melikoff.

"Yes, we shall have our revenge another time," said Captain Saltstein.

Petrov's face cleared a little. He bowed gracefully and left the room, followed by the stranger. They passed down a long hall, and entered a small richly furnished apartment at the other end, which was intended for private conversation.

Petrov drew the curtains and motioned his companion to a seat beside him on a couch.

"Now, Feodor Gunsberg," he said hoarsely, "what is the matter? Why do you try to frighten me?"

"I did not wish to frighten you," answered the other. "There is really no cause for alarm. I have strange news, though, and I thought it best to tell you of it without delay. Your nephew is in St. Petersburg."

"Impossible! You are mad!" cried Petrov, half starting to his feet. Then he dropped back, the picture of abject fear.

"Bah! I did not expect this of you," muttered Feodor. "There is nothing to fear. Be calm. It is true, though, what I tell you. He arrived this morning and is stopping at the Royal Hotel on the Nevski Prospekt; I saw the signature in his own hand — Ivor Petrov."

"Then we are ruined. He suspects something. He has come, no doubt, to assert his claim."

"Absurd!" exclaimed Gunsberg. "He has not a shadow of a claim in the first place. What we did was only justice."

''But he may have information that we know nothing of," pursued Petrov in a shrill whisper. "It is even possible that he has the — the will." He brought out the last word with an effort.

The ruddy color faded from Gunsberg's cheeks, and for an instant he looked terror stricken. "That is nonsense, Maximy Petrov," he said firmly. "Only one man knows what became of the will, and he is far away in Siberia. If it ever turns up it won't be in the hands of your nephew."

"I wish I was sure of that," replied Petrov. "I think sometimes that we were hasty in fixing the theft upon Nicholas. Still, he is better out of the way."

"Yes, convicts in Siberia are like dead men — they tell no tales," muttered Gunsberg grimly. "If it comes to the worst —" He broke off suddenly and began to pace the floor.

Petrov rose, and catching him by the arm turned him about until they were face to face.

"Feodor," he whispered sharply, "we are in danger. Only one purpose can have brought my nephew to Russia. He may be armed in a way that we do not dream of. You know that as well as I do. It would be terrible if exposure should come now. We should both be ruined."

"True," assented Gunsberg. "Go on."

Petrov hesitated an instant.

"My nephew will doubtless seek an interview at once," he resumed. "Until then we can be sure of nothing. There is only one way out of the difficulty, and that way you hinted at a moment ago."

"I don't understand you," said Gunsberg. "Make your meaning plainer."

Petrov was trembling now, and beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. He brushed them away with a handkerchief, and began to speak in a jerky, agitated voice.

"See here, Feodor, you know what I mean. You are assistant to the Minister of Police. You have power and influence. It is an easy matter for you to send a man to Siberia. Do you understand me now? If my nephew proves dangerous he must he disposed of. That step is necessary for your safety and mine. I ask you plainly, is there a way?"

Gunsberg seemed anxious to evade the question. He paced the room several times with knitted brow, and then stepped in front of his companion.

"There is a way," said Gunsberg, "If your nephew proves dangerous let me know at once. There is too much at stake for hesitation. Candidly, I don't anticipate trouble. You assured me that your brother had no communication with his wife prior to his death."

"Not to my knowledge," answered Petrov. "He was closely watched, as you well know."

"It is not likely that he had," resumed Gunsberg, "else the nephew had been here long ago. It is quite probable, my dear Maximy, that he has come on a friendly visit to his uncle."

Petrov ground his teeth with rage. "I hate him," he snarled.

"Exactly! Just as you hated his mother before him," said Gunsberg coolly. "Well, keep an eye upon him."

"Yes, but suppose he has already begun the mischief," exclaimed Petrov with sudden uneasiness. "How do we know what he has been doing all day long? He may have influential friends in the city."

"Make your mind easy," returned Gunsberg. "I have had a spy upon his track since early morning. He has spent the day in strolling along the quays; and exploring the docks of Vassili Ostroff. Your nephew has a very inquisitive turn of mind. But come, Maximy, sit down until I give you more explicit instructions, We must go carefully over the ground in order to make no mistake,"

Side by side on the couch the two conspirators conversed in low tones for nearly an hour. They parted in the hall, Feodor Gunsberg going briskly down the staircase, while Petrov walked unsteadily to the buffet and quieted his nerves with a glass of vodka. Then he returned to the whist room, where he played with such marked inattention to the game that he rose from the table two hours later a thousand rubles poorer than when he sat down.

We must take the reader back to the early afternoon of the same day on which the members of the Imperial Club had their weekly banquet. Shortly after two o'clock a tall, slender young man, with light blue eyes and a drooping yellow mustache, emerged from a hotel midway on the Nevski Prospekt, and turned in the direction of the Neva, He wore a heavy cape coat and carried a cane, which he twirled carelessly in his hand. He walked slowly over the frozen pavements, surveying with keen interest the stream of pedestrians that surged past him, and the gay procession of sleighs that sped along the center of the street to the merry accompaniment of jingling bells.

Ivor Petrov tried to feel thoroughly at home amid the bustling scenes of the Russian capital, but he did not succeed very well. Though the first six years of his life had been spent in St. Petersburg, twenty succeeding years of exile had blotted out his early recollections.

In the United States, where those twenty years were spent, he had been known as Ivor Halliday. When he left New York en route for Russia he assumed the name of Petrov — a transformation which he had a perfect right to make.

He had been in St Petersburg just twenty four hours. The mission that brought him there was of a strange nature. But for a sacred promise, made to one who was now dead, he would have turned his back on Russia and taken the first express train for Berlin. That promise checked him, but it did not make his task any the easier, and it was with a vague hope of finding a solution of the problem that; he had come out for a stroll on the Nevski Prospekt under the slanting rays of the coppery sun.

The long, snowy vista of the street, gay with life and color, banished sterner things from his mind. He gave his imagination full sway, and contemplated with pleasurable emotions the life he would lead if the Russian capital became his home — a contingency that was far from being remote.

The crowd seemed to increase as he neared the Neva, and presently strains of martial music burst upon his ear. Close ahead, from the street that led to the Admiralty Place, issued a body of lancers in red jackets, preceded by their regimental band. As they trotted slowly up the Nevski Prospekt a pair of coal black horses, drawing a handsome sleigh in which sat two men, took fright either at the music or the dazzling glitter of the equipments, and made a frantic dash for the sidewalk.

Ivor was directly opposite when the incident occurred. He saw the danger that menaced himself and the other pedestrians, but instead of running he stood his ground. As the maddened brutes leaped upon the pavement he sprang forward and seized the nearer one by the check rein. He was dragged a few yards, holding on with grim persistence, and then, aided by the half demoralized driver, he brought the panting horses to a standstill.

The occupants of the sleigh jumped out as Ivor released his hold. Both were distinguished looking men. One was wrapped in costly furs that came almost to his feet. The other wore a heavy military cloak, from beneath which protruded a sword tip.

"You are a brave fellow," exclaimed the latter, holding out his hand to Ivor. "Your presence of mind saved us from serious injury, if nothing worse. Here is my card. I beg that you will allow me to express my gratitude more fully at another time."

"And I, too, am equally grateful,'' said his companion, extending a card.

Ivor mechanically took the two bits of pasteboard in his hand. He felt that what he had done was very simple, and such profuse expressions of gratitude embarrassed him. He forgot to produce his own card, and could find no words to speak, though a thorough knowledge of the Russian tongue had been part of his education.

"I fear you overrate my services," he said finally. "It was a very easy thing to do."

"Not at all," said the officer; "it was a brave act. We shall meet again, I hope."

As an inquisitive crowd was now pressing closely about the scene the distinguished strangers stepped into the sleigh, which had been backed off the sidewalk, and pulled the rugs about them.

"Take the nearest cut to the Imperial Club, Lyapin. We are late now," cried the officer, as he pulled out his watch.

The driver touched the spirited horses with his whip, and they dashed down the street, scattering the crowd to right and left. Ivor, slightly unnerved, turned back toward the hotel. When he found himself out of the throng he examined the cards with some curiosity! On one was engraved "Ilarion Reschagin, Minister of the Interior," and on the other, "Captain Alexander Saltstein, Imperial Guard of Russia."

"By Jove! I have made two friends among the nobility already," he muttered aloud, as he put the cards in his pocket,

A few minutes later he took out his handkerchief, and the cards fell unnoticed to the pavement. He discovered the loss when he reached the hotel, but he deemed it of little importance since he remembered the names perfectly.

CHAPTER II

After his long walk and stirring adventure Ivor Petrov slept until noon of the following day. It was Saturday, and though very cold the sun was shining with unwonted brightness.. The merry jingle of sleigh bells filled the air, and from his window Ivor saw the motley crowd that was passing along the sidewalks. All doubt and irresolution seemed to have vanished from his mind, and he contemplated the future with a certain degree of pleasure. He dressed with unusual care, and went down stairs to breakfast. As he left his room a little man who was pacing the corridor suddenly vanished, and Ivor wondered at his precipitation. The little man hung about the dining room for, an hour, and when Ivor came out, and putting on his hat and coat started down the Nevski Prospekt, the stranger took the same direction, keeping slightly in the rear.

That he was an object of suspicion to any one was the last thing that could have entered Ivor's mind. He went briskly on, drinking in the stimulating ozone and feasting his eyes on the shifting scenes of the busy street. He reached the Neva and turned to the left along the Court Quay. The frozen river with its procession of dashing sleighs seemed to have little attraction for him. His eyes rested on the long line of ducal palaces and private mansions that faced the embankment. Presently he stopped before one of the latter — a massive building of rose granite that bore the unmistakable impress of wealth and aristocracy.

It was not without emotion that he gazed on the house before him. It was his birthplace, and here the first six years of his life had been spent. A flood of childish memories surged over him, and the place assumed a familiar aspect.

He ascended the broad flight of steps and passed the stone lions that guarded the balustrade. As he placed his hand on the bell the little man who had been following him crossed the street and rested his shoulders on the parapet of the embankment.

The door opened noiselessly; and Ivor was confronted by a servant in livery who ushered him into a spacious hall furnished with the utmost magnificence. Ivor produced a card and requested to see Alexis Petrov.

The servant looked surprised and then perplexed. Motioning Ivor to a seat he placed the card on a salver and disappeared. A moment or two later a tall, broad shouldered man wrapped in a crimson dressing gown rushed into the hall from a side door. His face beamed with delight, and catching Ivor around the neck he planted a fervent kiss on each cheek. Then he stood at a little distance and surveyed his visitor.

"My dear nephew!" he cried, "can it really be you? Ah! how you have grown. I rejoice to see you again."

"It is a pleasant meeting to me, I assure you," said Ivor huskily. "You are my uncle Maximy, then — the devoted friend of my mother? And my father, is he well?"

The light faded from Maximy Petrov's face and his expression became sorrowful.

"Are you ignorant of what has occurred?" he asked. "My dear brother died three years ago."

"Dead!'" gasped Ivor. "And I knew nothing of it!" He turned very pale and sank down on a chair.

A sneering smile flitted across Maximy Petrov's face, but with apparent sympathy he induced his nephew to rise and led him into an adjoining apartment fitted in modern style. Book cases lined the walls and the floor was strewn with soft rugs. A massive oak table held writing materials and two wax candles. Maximy sat down at this and motioned Ivor to a seat close beside him.

I am surprised that you knew nothing of your father's death," he said. "You were notified, of course."

"The letter was never received," replied Ivor.

"Then it must have gone astray. But tell me, how is your, mother? Did she come to Russia with you?"

"My mother died four months ago," said Ivor sadly. "I did not write at the time, as I probably should have done. My plans were already arranged for coming to Russia."

"Your mother dead! "exclaimed Maximy. "Ah ! How sorry I am to hear that. The time has come when, I need no longer conceal my feelings. I loved her once — with a deeper love than my brother ever knew."

"She often told me so," said Ivor. " She was grateful to you to the very last. At one time she confided to me that her life would probably have been far happier had she married you."

"That is true," said Maximy. "But the past cannot be undone. I did for her what I could."

He was silent for a moment, and then he suddenly threw one arm about Ivor.

"Cheer up, my boy," he added. "Come, let me tell you about those early days of which you can have no recollection. I first knew your mother in the summer of 1862. She was a charming young girl then, and her father, Colonel Halliday, was connected with the American legation. I fell madly in love with her, and so did my brother Alexis. My father had left me but a meager allowance at his death, while Alexis was wealthy. I don't think that fact had any influence with Mary Halliday. She cared nothing for me; she married Alexis because she loved him. It was a bitter blow, but I resolved then to be her friend for life. Poor girl! Her sorrows came quickly enough. Just after you were born in 1864 her father died. Her mother, as you know, had been dead some years. Then came deeper troubles. Your mother had many rejected suitors, and some of these out of revenge persistently poisoned my brother's mind against his wife. Alexis had a violent and jealous disposition, and was only too willing to believe what he heard. I reasoned with him in vain. I tried to hunt down the calumniators, but with no better success. Alexis treated your mother like a brute. Until you were six years old she endured her sufferings patiently. Then came the crowning insult, and she resolved to leave Russia. I tried to dissuade her, but when she was not to be moved I aided her to flee secretly, and she reached America safely with you. My brother never forgave me for my part in the affair, and I am sorry to say that his heart remained hardened to the last against you and your mother. Often I besought him to relent, but he would not listen to me —

"Wait a moment," interrupted Ivor. "You say that my father never repented of his brutality. That is strange — very strange."

"What do you mean?" inquired Maximy, fixing his eyes searchingly upon his nephew.

"I will come to that presently," replied Ivor. "For the past twenty years my mother and I have been living in New York, under her maiden name of Halliday. An income which had previously been secured to her by her father sufficed for our needs. I was well educated, and have been practicing law for three years. During those twenty years my mother was always reluctant to speak of her earlier life, but I inferred from what little she told me that she could never be induced to forgive my father. Four months ago she was seized with a fatal illness, and a day or two before she died she called me to her and gave me this letter."

Ivor paused and drew a faded envelope from his pocket.

"This was written by my father," he resumed, "and it bears date April 3, 1887.

"Three days before his death," muttered Maximy, half to himself. "Can it be possible?"

"You shall see the letter," said Ivor. "It is brief, but very earnest. Shall I read it aloud?"

Maximy nodded assent, and taking a sheet of paper from the envelope Ivor began:

ST. PETERSBURG, APRIL 3, 1887.
MY DEAR MARY:

Seventeen years have passed since we parted. I write to you now in a spirit of remorse and repentance. I have learned within a day or two that my suspicions were unfounded, and that some one, who shall be nameless, was the author of all the lies that reached my ears. I am glad to have discovered this in time for a partial reparation. With the knowledge of my sins heavy upon me I dare not ask for forgiveness of you. But all that I have will belong to you and to my son. I have made and signed a will to that effect. My son! How the word thrills me! I fear that he has been taught to hate me, and I can blame neither you nor him. Will you soften your heart sufficiently to answer this letter, and will you bid me hope that some day I shall see my boy? I write this from a sick bed — a trifling complaint, I think — and for reasons which I cannot explain, I must make haste to close.

Believe me.

Your repentant husband,

ALEXIS PETROV

Ivor's hand trembled as he laid the letter down. "Does that look as though my father's heart remained hardened?" he asked.

Maximy Petrov did not reply. His eyes were staring vacantly across the room, and the color had left his lips and cheeks.

Ivor was too much agitated himself to observe his uncle's confusion.

"My mother's heart was so hardened," he resumed, "that she could not forgive my father even on the receipt of his letter. On her death bed she repented and told me of this. She supposed that my father was still alive, and she exacted from me a solemn promise that I would go to Russia and assure him of her forgiveness. It was her wish, also, that I should make my home here. Naturally this mission was distasteful, but my promise left me no alternative. I am glad that I obeyed her, though I am deeply sorry that her forgiveness came too late."

By this time Maximy Petrov had regained his self possession. He took the letter from Ivor and read it closely.

"Yes, this is indeed my poor brother's handwriting," he remarked. "It was written only three days before his death. His illness was at first slight, but it suddenly assumed a malignant form and carried him off. It was my belief until now that he had gone to his grave with a hardened heart. I am very glad that it was otherwise. The thought of death, perhaps, caused him to repent."

"It was not the thought of death," said Ivor gravely. "It was the discovery of the vile plot that was woven against him and my mother."

"True," assented Maximy, "he says that in the letter. Oh, why did he carry the secret with him to the grave? Did your mother suspect any particular person?"

"No," replied Ivor. "It was a deep mystery to her. She had no idea who the guilty one could be."

Maximy breathed a sigh of relief and shifted his eyes uneasily to the floor.

There was a momentary pause, and then Ivor said confusedly; "I want you to understand that I did not come to Russia from any pecuniary motive. If my father has been dead for three years, however, it is strange that we should have remained ignorant so long."

He paused, feeling that he had not made himself understood as he intended.

"You were notified at the time my brother died," replied Maximy, "but you say the letter never reached you. No more than that could have been expected of me."

"No more than that?" queried Ivor in a wondering tone.

Maximy shifted his position and began to twirl the ends of his yellow mustache. "The fact is," he said, "that no such will as my brother mentions was ever found. After his death his family solicitor, Feodor Gunsberg, produced a will dated ten years ago, in which I was named sole heir."

Ivor looked steadfastly at his uncle, and as he noted his confused manner, and the uneasy expression of his eyes, a conviction flashed upon him that something was wrong. A moment before he would probably have refused his father's fortune had it been offered to him, but now that he believed in the existence of treachery and an intent to defraud him of his rights, his fiery young blood rose up in indignation. He even forgot that the man before him had been his mother's friend.

For an instant neither spoke. Each glanced furtively at the other, trying to anticipate the next move.

"In the face of that letter what you tell me is a great surprise," said Ivor finally.

"Of course it is," exclaimed Maximy, "and to me as well as you. If another will exists it shall be found. The house shall be thoroughly searched. It is strange that Gunsberg should know nothing of it, however. He alone transacted my brother's business."

"Who is this Gunsberg?" asked Ivor, "I suppose he is thoroughly reliable, like all old family solicitors."

The covert sneer in this remark was induced by the heat of suspicion, and Ivor regretted it instantly. It was the most unwise thing he could have said. It denoted an aggressive attitude on Ivor's part — an intention to investigate the affair; and his uncle was quick to understand this, and just as quick to decide mentally on his nephew's fate.

An! angry flush passed over his face, and then he remarked quietly, "No one in Petersburg will question Feodor Gunsberg's probity. From the practice of law he has risen to a high position under the Czar. He will aid us in searching for the will, and I sincerely hope it may be found. I have no desire to keep what does not belong to me. In case the search is successful I suppose you have legal evidence to prove your identity?"

"Oh yes," replied Ivor, "I have my mother's marriage certificate and other papers."

"Have you them with you?"

"No, they are at the hotel. I did not expect to need them."

"Of course not,'' replied Maximy. "I am speaking only of a legal contingency. I myself am, of course, satisfied of your identity. And now, my dear nephew," he added in a tone of hearty geniality, "I must insist that you leave the hotel, and come here — to your rightful home. This is a strange and puzzling affair with which we have to deal, but we shall get to the bottom of it, I assure you. I am firmly convinced that the will of which my brother speaks does exist. Naturally no close search was made, since Feodor Gunsberg produced the other will, but that error shall be rectified at once. Whether the missing document is found or not, you shall have your rights. This is your home, and everything I have is equally yours. My dead brother's wishes shall not be disregarded. I respect you because you are my kinsman, and I love you because you are your mother's son."

He held out his hand, and Ivor, completely disarmed by these frank words, clasped it warmly.

"There, we understand each other now," added Maximy Petrov. "If you will excuse me for a brief moment I will cancel an engagement previously made, and we will dine together tonight. Then you can return to your hotel and pack up your luggage. I will send a servant for it."

"You are very kind," said Ivor; "and it would be ungrateful of me not to accept. I beg you to forget my rash words. I hardly knew what I was saying. By the way, I remember hearing my mother speak in kindly terms of father's constant attendant. Could he have any knowledge of this will — if he be still alive?"

"Ah! You mean Nicholas. No; he knew nothing. I am sorry to tell you that he met with a sad fate. After my brother's death he became connected with the Nihilists. He was arrested, and is now serving a life sentence in Siberia." >

"A sad fate, indeed," said Ivor.

"Yes, but a common one in Russia," replied his uncle. "Excuse me an instant now, and I will attend to this little matter."

Drawing his chair close to the table, he seized pen and paper and began to write. His hand moved rapidly and without hesitation, but his brow was moist with perspiration when he laid down the pen and placed the letter in an envelope.

Little did Ivor imagine that the sealing of that missive sealed his own fate.

A tap at the bell summoned a servant, who went off with the letter after receiving a whispered word of instruction from his master.

Maximy Petrov was now in a rare good humor. He exchanged his chair for an easy couch-and made Ivor sit beside him. They chatted for an hour or two without reserve, and Ivor was induced to speak freely of his life during the past twenty years. Then his uncle recalled various reminiscences prior to that time, and his frank geniality removed the last shadow of suspicion from Ivor's mind.

Dinner was served in great state, but the mellow wine — drawn from the dead man's famous cellar — counteracted what would have been otherwise a chilling ceremonial. Maximy Petrov showed at his very best. He was a man who lacked no outer evidence of culture and refinement. He was witty and entertaining, and before the meal was over host and guest were on terms of the closest intimacy. It seemed to Ivor that he had found a new home, and his face beamed with serene happiness as he contemplated the vista of possibilities that life in this frozen capital of the North opened before him.

After dinner cigars and cordials were served in the library, and then uncle and nephew parted with the understanding that a sleigh should be sent to the hotel an hour later for Ivor and his baggage.

That no conveyance should be offered to take him there did not occur to Ivor as strange. He would in any case have preferred to walk, for it was a clear, cold night, and he had dined heavily. He started in the best of spirits, and strolled gayly across the Admiralty Place, and thence into the Nevski Prospekt.

CHAPTER III

Ivor's thoughts were of the rosiest color as he walked along, smoking one of Maximy Petrov's fragrant cigars. A few hours before he had entered the Russian capital thoroughly out of heart with the distasteful task he was pledged to perform. And now, behold, his doubts had vanished and a new life was opening before him. He was delighted with Russia, with St. Petersburg, with his uncle most of all. He had received a graceful reception in his old home, and now he was going back to it — permanently, perhaps — back to the house where he had first seen the light, where his mother had taught his infant lips to lisp a prayer, and where he had learned to fear the tall, blond haired man who ruled the household with a rod of iron.

The blood of the Petrovs ran in Ivor's veins, and the Russian strain had survived even through twenty years of exile in the New World. The possibilities of his new life took fervent hold on his imagination. He saw himself the heir to his father's vast wealth, a member of the crack clubs, a prominent figure of the upper circles of Petersburg society, and finally a trusted confidant of the Czar — a power in the vast Slavonic empire. It was a bright dream, and it became still more dazzling when he remembered the humble toil and obscurity of his life in New York. His admission to the bar and his successes in the courts — of which he had lately been so proud — dwindled to insignificance now.

Perhaps Maximy Petrov's mellow wine had something to do with these visions, but even when the cold air had driven its fumes from Ivor's head he found the prospect little less attractive. He knew himself to be his father's rightful heir. He believed that the missing will would be found — nay, he felt that it must be found. He would not accept everything he told himself. No, he would insist that his uncle take half. That was what his mother would have wished him to do.

For his father's death Ivor felt a sincere regret. True, Alexis Petrov had been nothing but a brute to his wife and child, but there was some excuse for this, since lying tongues had poisoned his mind. And then he had repented and made restitution — if the letter could be believed.

The thought of the lonely grave thousands of miles away, where his mother was lying at rest, made Ivor's blood burn to revenge her sufferings. He resolved to make that his life object. He would seek out the guilty man, with his uncle's assistance, and bring him to punishment. There surely must be some way to discover his identity, if he was still alive.

Ivor's heart felt lighter on the strength of this resolve. His thoughts went back to their old channel, and he was so busy in making bright plans for the future that he walked half a block past his hotel. He retraced his steps, and throwing the end of his cigar away entered the building.

Had Ivor been less preoccupied he must have detected a change in the atmosphere that boded no good to himself. The hotel proprietor was in the office — a most unusual thing at this hour —and his greeting to his guest was curt and retrained. A tall man in a dark blue cloak was standing near, and the two exchanged significant glances.

Ivor passed on and ascended the stairs. His room was on the third floor, and as he approached it along the corridor he was mildly surprised to see a light shining under the door. He was sure that he had extinguished the gas. But his surprise changed to shocked bewilderment when he turned the knob and entered. The gas was burning brightly and everything was in a state of confusion. Three men in the familiar uniform of the Russian police were ransacking the wardrobe, turning out the contents of the bureau drawers, ripping the clothes from the bed and even prying up the edges of the carpet. A tall, distinguished looking man with waxed mustaches and a pointed beard was standing beside; the open trunk, transferring to a black leather satchel a lot of letters, documents and pamphlets.

Before Ivor could find words to demand an explanation the man at the trunk, whose uniform denoted his high rank, turned sharply around. A few strides brought him across the room, and clapping one hand on Ivor's shoulder he said quietly:

"I arrest you in the name of the Czar. I warn you not to resist."

"You are mad," cried Ivor. "If there is any justice in Russia you shall be punished for this outrage. You are making a great mistake."

"Is this your apartment, and is your name Petrov?"

"Yes."

"Then you are the man I want. You will find that there is no mistake."

"But I tell you there is," persisted Ivor, "as you will find to your cost. What are you doing with those papers over there? They are not mine. I never saw them before."

"Perhaps you will deny the ownership of these, too," said the officer as one of his assistants brought him two heavy revolvers and a dagger, which had been discovered under the wardrobe. "You are well caught this time, my fine fellow."

Ivor's head swam as an inkling of the truth occurred to him.

"This is a vile conspiracy," he cried, "The criminal you are seeking must have concealed these things in my room in order to save himself. If you won't accept my explanation go to Maximy Petrov on the Court Quay. He will tell you what a blunder you are committing. I am his nephew."

The officer smiled incredulously.

"I have no time to parley with you," he replied. "I am Inspector Stamm,' and I am merely obeying orders in arresting you. You have nothing to gain by attempting to dispute my authority.

Realizing that resistance was in vain, Ivor wisely held his tongue. It was a hard task, though, and more than once he was on the point of a bitter outbreak as he watched the police making free with his property. "Never mind," he thought. "They will have to swallow their insults before long. I will teach them a lesson they won't forget in a hurry."

When every nook and corner of the room had been searched without any further discoveries, Inspector Stamm put the pile of papers and the weapons into the satchel, and his assistants hastily restored the furniture to its place. Then the door was locked, and the little procession marched through the corridor and down the back staircase to an exit on a side street. Snow was beginning to fall, and through the screen of white flakes a close covered sleigh was visible, standing by the curb. Ivor was hurried across the pavement and bundled roughly into the vehicle. The three men followed him, and the door was shut with a slam. The inspector lingered an instant to talk to the hotel proprietor, who had come around from the front entrance.

"Not a word about this, as you value your license," Ivor heard the former say.

"I understand, your honor," was the reply.

Inspector Stamm nodded and sprang up beside the driver, satchel in hand. The next instant the horses were galloping down the deserted street.

On account of the thick curtains Ivor could not see out. He expected to be taken to the main police station on the Nevski Prospekt and the length of the ride caused him some uneasiness. When the sleigh finally stopped he found himself in a square gloomy courtyard whence he was led through angular corridors to a damp and narrow cell.

The door was closed and bolted and as the footsteps of his jailors died away, Ivor made up his mind that a hearing that night was out of the question. He was convinced that his uncle would discover what had become of him, and would procure his release by morning. He even saw a spice of grim humor in the situation and so far mastered his indignation that he was able to sleep soundly on his hard bed.

Ivor's arrest took place at a late hour on Saturday night. On the following Tuesday morning one of the St. Petersburg papers, more daring than its contemporaries, published the following brief paragraph:

We learn from reliable sources that a Nihilist was arrested on Saturday night at a hotel on the Nevski Prospekt. Various deadly weapons were found concealed in his room, and his trunk contained incriminating evidence in the shape of inflammatory pamphlets and letters from famous Terrorists in London. The credit for the discovery and arrest of this dangerous conspirator belongs to Feodor Gunsberg, the efficient secretary to the Minister of Police. By this time the prisoner is probably on his way to Siberia.

Doubtless the above article caused much conjecture and no little alarm in the Nihilistic circles of the capital. To all loyal citizens it was a source of gratification. Two persons at least it made supremely happy. These individuals were Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg. Their plot had proved a great success, and a burden of fear was removed from their minds. Petrov was delighted with what he regarded equally as an act of vengeance, and as a precaution against the discovery of a hidden crime.

How, meanwhile, had Ivor fared? The proceedings which followed his arrest were terribly brief. The first shock came to him when he awoke to see the gray dawn stealing through a crevice in his cell. He heard a bell ringing, and he recognized its strokes. It was the bell that hangs in the chapel of Peter and Paul, and he realized now that he was a prisoner in one of the casemates of the Fortress.

The day passed in a fever of doubt and dread. The guard who brought him food and drink could not be induced to speak. In the evening a grim faced official and two attendants entered the cell. They stripped Ivor's clothes off, and substituted a jacket and trousers of coarse gray material. In vain did he demand to know of what he was accused, and tried to explain that he was a nephew of Maximy Petrov. Not a word was spoken in answer. Finally he was wrapped in a long, dark cloak and taken out to the courtyard, where a covered sleigh was in waiting. Three Cossacks, thoroughly armed and equipped, got in with him, and the horses started off on a gallop. Presently the sleigh stopped before a great railway terminus, and the party passed in by a side entrance so as to avoid the crowd. A moment later Ivor found himself in a closely curtained compartment of the train, and before he realized the situation the wheels were in motion. The three Cossacks had been joined by an officer — a stern, smooth faced man — and these four were evidently to accompany the prisoner on his journey, for they removed their heavy cloaks, and spread blankets on the sleeping berths.

All night long the train rattled through the darkness, and Ivor lay on his hard couch in wakeful misery.

In the morning he fell asleep, in spite of the terrible uncertainty of his position, and when he awoke toward evening, he heard his companions talking in low tones. By lying perfectly still and feigning slumber he gathered from the conversation that he was bound for the island of Saghalien, and that his arrest was due to the astuteness of a certain prominent police official, by name Feodor Gunsberg.

Instantly the terrible, maddening truth flashed upon him. The mention of Feodor Gunsberg's name was the clew he needed. It was the key to the whole situation, and link after link fitted easily into the chain as Ivor, with the anguish of despair, called to mind the incidents of his brief sojourn in St. Petersburg. While he was visiting his uncle some wretch — hired by Feodor Gunsberg, no doubt — had obtained entrance to his room, and placed among his effects the deadly weapons, and the documents which proved him to be a criminal of some sort — in all probability a Nihilist. The note written and dispatched by Maximy Petrov must have been the signal for action. There had been plenty of time after that for Gunsberg to lay the fatal trap in readiness for Inspector Stamm's visit.

But what was the object of this infamous conspiracy? Ah! that was still clearer to Ivor's mind. Maximy Petrov and his confederate had purposely destroyed the will by which Alexis Petrov made reparation to his wife and son, and had forged another to suit their own ends. Little wonder they were willing to adopt any means to put the rightful claimant out of the way.

Knowing as he did how easy it is to send an innocent man to Siberia, Ivor was not slow to realize the desperate nature of his own plight. All his important papers had of course been carried off by the spy who placed the incriminating evidence in his room. Even the letter from his dead father he had left in Maximy Petrov's possession. Already sentence had been passed upon him, and he was on his way to life long exile. The higher authorities no doubt believed him guilty on the weight of the evidence. His friends in America would never know what had become of him — for the Russian government has a way of smoothing over inquiries, and as a political prisoner he would be carefully kept away from any one who might give ear to his story.

It is infinitely better to be sent to Siberia than to Saghalien, and Ivor knew this. The latter place is an island off the Siberian coast, where the Russians maintain a penal settlement for their worst criminals, and for those serving life sentences. Terrible tales of the cruelty and oppression that exist on the island had come to Ivor's hearing, and he knew that Feodor Gunsberg's influence would be used to make his own lot as hard as possible. It would be to the interest of the conspirators to insure their safety by causing his death.

When he fully comprehended the diabolical network that had been thrown around him Ivor abandoned hope. His attempts to converse with the Cossack officer were sternly repulsed, and he concluded that it would be wiser to remain silent. He sank down on one of the hard seats, and meditated bitterly on his unjust and cruel fate while the train rattled on through the deepening gloom of the wintry evening.

CHAPTER IV

The incidents of that long journey, on the first stage of which we have followed the unfortunate victim of Russian injustice, need not be related in detail. When Ivor accidentally discovered the perfidy of his uncle Moscow was already far to the westward. He remained shut up in the closed compartment of the car for nearly a week. Then the line of railway ended, and he was conveyed by sledge across the Ural Mountains, and thence over the frozen surface of Siberia.

Neither pains nor money were spared to hasten the end of his journey. The April thaws caused some delay, but when the roads were passable again the little party traveled day and night in a capacious wagon, making brief stops at posting stations to procure fresh relays of horses. Tiumen was passed, and Irkutsk, and then the dread mines of Kara.

Of the regions through which he was journeying Ivor saw nothing. The curtains of the wagon were always closely drawn, and he was not allowed to leave it for his meals. Conversation was rigorously prohibited, and what he suffered mentally, as each day carried him farther to the east, no pen can describe. The future was black and hopeless, and the past seemed more of a vague dream than a reality.

About the close of July — more than four months from their start — the four Cossacks and their prisoner reached the town of Vladivostok on the Pacific coast. After remaining here a week in solitary confinement Ivor was put on board a Russian steamship, still attended by his escort, and the vessel forged away to the north. Three days later it entered the bay of Aniva, and from the deck Ivor had a glimpse of the bleak hills and craggy mountains of the island of Saghalien — that desolate "No Man's Land" of far Cathay.

He never forgot the hopeless misery that filled his heart when he walked the gangplank and put foot on the landing pier at Karsokov. He seemed to have reached another world. It was eventide, and the little town, built on the slope of a long hill, presented a quaint oriental appearance as the setting sun's rays touched the minarets and bell towers that peeped above the rich foliage. The arrival of the steamer had brought many of the inhabitants to the pier. Giliaks and Oros from the interior mingled freely with almond eyed immigrants from Japan and China. A group of convicts, fresh from their evening bath, filed by, and the white capped Russian soldiers in charge turned their heads to stare stolidly at Ivor.

The crowd halted as the four Cossacks advanced, marching in double file, with their prisoner between them. They trudged up the sloping street, passing successively the chapel, the mill, the residence of the military commandant, the barracks, the workshops, the governor's house, and the offices. These were built mostly of wood, and before some of them stood brass cannon. Last of all the prison was reached — a low, spacious building of logs, standing on the very crest of the eminence, and facing the blue waters of Aniva Bay. Alongside of it was the gibbet, a dreaded and perpetual menace to the convict population of Karsokov.

As the guards halted the little party for a moment, an incident occurred that changed the current of Ivor's thoughts, and gave him a deeper realization of his misery. Along the road that led by the prison to the town came a fair young girl. Her age could not have been more than eighteen. A gown of delicate blue fabric, evidently made by no provincial modiste, showed the outlines of her graceful figure. Her cheeks were rosy with the bloom of health. By her side walked a young Russian officer, laden with the spoils of the expedition from which they were returning — bunches of gayly colored flowers and a bark basket filled with wild strawberries.

As the couple passed the prison gates the girl turned her deep blue eyes on Ivor. With womanly intuition she was quick to recognize, beneath his convict garb and the matted beard on his cheeks, the trace of gentle birth and breeding. Her gaze rested on him only an instant, but it was long enough for Ivor to read sympathy and regret for his misfortune. His face crimsoned with shame and confusion, and he felt his degradation as tie had never felt it before.

"She takes me for some poor wretch stained with blood and crime," he muttered. "Oh! if she only knew the truth!"

As he watched her retreating figure with emotions that nearly choked him, he was dragged away and hustled roughly through the arched entrance of the prison. A moment later he was locked into a large cell, so well furnished and lighted that he concluded his confinement here would be only temporary.

In the morning two of the prison guards entered his cell, and exchanged his travel worn garments for a new outfit of the same material and cut. Then breakfast was served, and an hour later two distinguished visitors arrived — Colonel Riskin, the governor of Saghalien, and Captain Komaroff, the military commandant. The former was an elderly man, with a vigorous, erect figure and a smooth shaven face. Captain Komaroff was in the prime of life. He wore his yellow beard parted in the middle, German fashion, and a thin mustache scarcely concealed the resolute set of his lips. Like most Russian officials, he was a rigid martinet. He allowed nothing to influence his sense of duty and his stern observance of discipline.

Ivor had long dreamed of such an opportunity. For the first time since his arrest he was face to face with an official of influence. A ray of hope entered his heart, and he determined to make the most of his chance.

The object of the visit was soon made known. The governor briefly informed Ivor that a St. Petersburg tribunal had found him guilty of conspiring against the life of the Czar, and had sentenced him to twenty years' penal servitude on the island of Saghalien. He added a few words of advice relating to the strict observance of the prison rules, and then formally delivered Ivor into the custody of Captain Komaroff.

This direct confirmation of his own suspicions staggered Ivor for a moment, but he recovered in time to appeal for a hearing, and without waiting for permission he began to explain the infamous plot that had caused his ruin. The knowledge of what was at stake enabled him to speak coherently, but before he could reach the vital parts of his narrative he was harshly commanded to stop. The governor and the commandant seemed dumfounded at such audacity on the part of a prisoner, and to enforce their orders they summoned two of the guards from the corridor.

Frantic at the ruin of his last hope Ivor persisted in speaking. He denounced in the most violent terms Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg, and begged pitifully for a hearing — for an investigation of his charges. When he saw the blended anger and incredulity on the faces of his auditors he became confused and incoherent, and lost control of himself.

"I am as innocent as either of you," he cried indignantly. "I am the victim of a vile conspiracy. I demand my release. The Russian government will repent this outrage."

His speech was cut off as the guards threw themselves upon him, and forced him against the wall.

"Put him in close confinement," directed Captain Komaroff. "He will come to his senses by and by. Hark you now," he added, addressing Ivor, "refractory prisoners have a hard time of it here, and I advise you to stick closely to the rules. Silence is the most important. There must be no more such outbreaks. It is useless for you to persist in this story of yours. You need not expect any one to listen or to believe you. Your punishment will be severe if you disobey. I have special instructions concerning you, and I intend to follow them to the letter. I warn you that I am no easy taskmaster."

Captain Komaroff nodded to the guards, and Ivor was dragged, still struggling, into the corridor, and thence to a narrow, gloomy cell, far different from his other place of confinement.

The next three weeks were a blank in Ivor's memory. He lay in the prison hospital during that time, tossing and moaning in the delirium of fever. Then he came back to consciousness, and during the tedious period of convalescence he had plenty of time to think over his situation. Remembering Captain Komaroff's words he wisely concluded to obey the prison rules. Nothing could be gained by disobedience, while with patience he might some day find a means of escape, or, better still, an opportunity of telling his story to some influential person who would believe and help him.

The hope of these two contingencies was too slight to be of much comfort. Ivor was stolidly resigned to his fate when he left the hospital early in September. With the exception of one incident, the past seemed years behind him. The beautiful face of the young Russian girl he had seen on landing was as clear to his mind as though it were only yesterday she had passed him at the prison gates with that swift glance of pity and sympathy. He could not forget her, and he did not wish to. The remembrance was one bright spot in his barren existence.

Ivor's daily routine' differed in no wise from that of the other prisoners. He toiled a certain number of hours in the workshop, learning to make shoes under the watchful eyes of the guard. His meals consisted of black bread and soup, with sometimes a scanty dole of meat or fish. He occupied a solitary cell at night, and once a week he was taken down to the sea to bathe. His companions — with whom all intercourse was forbidden — were criminals of the lowest type. The governor and the commandant he saw infrequently, and then only at a distance.

Thus the days merged into weeks, and the month of November brought a change which was destined to wield a strange and powerful influence in Ivor's life.

Saghalien is a long, narrow island lying north of Japan, and close to the shores of Asiatic Russia — an offshoot of Siberia, in fact. It formerly belonged to Japan, but was ceded to Russia in 1860. It is nearly six hundred miles in length, and in some places more than one hundred in width. The climate is severe, and at all times the winds are bleak. On the western shore the valleys are covered with grass, and there are heavy forests of pine, birch, oak, larch, and maple. Various animals abound, and the rivers are full of fish. A few survivors of the original native tribes live inland. The Russian settlements, mainly penal colonies, are exclusively in the south. The convicts sent here are supposed to be low grade malefactors, but Ivor's case, as we have seen, was an exception to this rule. There was another exception at this time, and one of a similar nature.

In November Ivor was sent to the coal mines at Duli, some twelve miles north of Karsokov. He was not strong enough for such severe work, but that made no difference. The two powerful conspirators in St. Petersburg had doubtless arranged their plans to this end intending that he should succumb to privation and toil long before the expiration of his sentence. At all events Captain Komaroff's orders were imperative, and Ivor had to go.

The mines at Duli had been in operation for some time. They were situated in a mountain range close to the west coast of the island, and were entered, by lateral shafts. In the vicinity were barracks, and a spacious prison capable of holding two or three hundred inmates. The coal dug here was supplied to Russian vessels, and was sold to such foreign ships as visited Karsokov to purchase fish, furs, and seals.

A very short period at the mines satisfied Ivor that a year of such life, at most, was all he would be able to endure. He was compelled to work hard all day, and was scantily clothed and fed. It was winter now, and the cold was so severe that the convicts almost froze in the sleeping kameras at night. The overseer and the Cossack officer in charge were merciless disciplinarians, and cared nothing for the sufferings of the unfortunate prisoners. The severity of the weather made no difference. Through rain and snow the poor fellows had to trudge the distance between the prison and the mines, morning and evening.

It is true that in some respects the discipline was less rigorous than in the workshops at Karsokov. The convicts were not chained, for example, and at night a dozen or more occupied a single kamera. What need was there for sterner measures? Escape was the last thing dreamed of after a long day's toil. Even should some be bold enough to attempt it, where would they find refuge and food in the dead of winter? So the officials reasoned, and long experience had proved the correctness of their theories.

December passed away, and the new year came. The ground lay thick with snow, and drift ice rolled through Perouse Strait. Ivor's lot was not so hard as at first. His loneliness was now mitigated by a strange companionship — by an intimacy with one of his fellow convicts. The eleven men who shared his kamera were mostly blood stained wretches. Among them were three Germans, a Circassian, a Persian, and two Turks. But this one man Ivor had singled out immediately as being of different metal. He was tall and spare, and showed a strength and agility that belied the appearance of old age given by his long white beard and furrowed cheeks. His eyes were as keen and bright as those of a young man.

From the first a tacitly understood bond of sympathy seemed to exist between the two. The stranger's daily tasks were performed in a mechanical way, and at night he sat apart from the others with an abstracted look upon his face that showed him to be brooding over some deep sorrow.

Ivor found himself wondering, more than once, if there could be a similarity between their misfortunes, and his heart warmed toward the lonely old man.

It was Ivor who made the first advances, and though they were received rather coldly, he persevered with little acts of kindness and cheering words until the stranger's stolidity thawed. After that the acquaintance ripened of itself. At night, when the day's work was over, they two would withdraw to the far corner of the kamera, with their rations of tea and black bread, and would converse in low tones until fatigue drove them to their hard beds.

On the subject of the past, however, both were chary of speaking. The old man's name was Gogol, and he confided to Ivor that a cruel act of injustice had brought him to the mines of Saghalien. He had been here three years, he said, and though his sentence was for life, he had hopes of escaping at some future day, and exposing those who had ruined him. He was sixty three years old.

So similar was this to his own case that Ivor made a partial confidant of the old man, not going into particulars, however, but merely explaining that he too was the innocent victim of a cruel plot. For two reasons their confidences did not go any farther. The past was a melancholy and distasteful subject to both, and the future had stronger claims upon the brief time which was afforded them for conversation.

The old man knew his companion as Ivor, and whether Gogol was a Christian name or a surname Ivor never took the trouble to ask. It was a matter of indifference to both. At least they thought so then.

Though the chances of escape formed the burden of their conversation, the solution of the problem never seemed to come any nearer. Various plans were discussed, but in each some flaw was found. At one point the mainland was only twelve miles distant from the shore of the island, but to cross the narrow strait without a boat was impossible. And once on the mainland which way could they turn for safety? Ivor suggested that they should take to sea, if ever an opportunity offered, and try to reach the northern end of Japan. Gogol, however, had fears of the water, and would not risk the venture.

"We will find a way some time," he said vaguely. "It must be in summer, of course. Have patience, my boy. All things come to him who waits."

It was very hard for Ivor to be patient under the circumstances, but he hid his feelings as well as he could and kept on inventing new plans for escape, night after night, only to have them shattered by Gogol's clearer headed logic. But he was grateful for the companionship of the old man, and in spite of discouragements a hope took deep root in his heart that someday he would escape to bring a terrible and deserved retribution on the heads of his enemies.

With the advent of February the winter became more rigorous and severe. A heavy snow storm made the road to the mines impassable for three days, though the convicts labored with shovels to clear the path. Then a brief thawing rain set in, followed by a tremendous drop of the mercury, and a crust of solid ice formed on the snow.

The next morning the Convicts went to work as usual, and the overseer, anxious to make up lost time, added two hours to the day's labour. When Ivor and Gogol returned in the evening they were too weary to enjoy their usual talk. They swallowed their scanty supper and were soon sleeping like dead men. And meanwhile, though they dreamed not of it, strange things were going on about them. The worm, long trodden under the heel of oppression, was about to turn.

CHAPTER V

A hard pull at his arm, and a low voice repeating his name, woke Ivor from a sound sleep. He believed at first that the guards had given the signal to rise, but all was silent, and no yellow gleam of torches shone through the chinks of the door.

Then he saw Gogol sitting beside him, and in surprised tones he asked: "What is the matter? Did you waken me?"

"Hush! Not so loud," whispered his companion. "I roused you because I had something to say. Strange things have taken place this night while you slept. I made a foolish promise, and I have partly repented of it. That is what I wish to tell you."

Ivor was bewildered by the old man's strange words and agitated manner. "Are you sure you are awake?" he said, giving him a pinch on the arm.

"I am not dreaming, my friend," said Gogol quietly. "Dismiss that from your mind. What I have to say must be told briefly, for it is very near the hour of rising. To begin, I have long suspected that our fellow prisoners were hatching some plot, for often, when I woke up in the night, I heard them talking among themselves. Tonight Rustem the Turk came to me and proposed that you and I should join their undertaking. I refused to promise until I knew what this plan was, and he then told me all. It seems that a plan of escape has long been maturing, but nothing definite was decided upon until yesterday, when a convict, who was sent up from Karsokov, communicated to the others that half the garrison there have been relieved and sent to Vladivostok, while the fresh relay of Cossacks is not due for a week. Consequently only one hundred and fifty remain in Karsokov. Moreover, on the third night from this the governor gives a feast in honor of his son, who will shortly leave for Irkutsk to be married. The officers will dine in the governor's house, while the soldiers will have a table spread in the hall at the barracks. There will be plenty of fiery stuff to drink, and by midnight nearly every one in Karsokov will be stupid."

"But how does this affect us here in the mines?" asked Ivor.

"Do you not see? On the afternoon of the feast day the convicts will overpower the guards, at the dinner hour. Then they will rush back here to the prison, seize all the arms and ammunition, lock the rest of the soldiers up in the barracks or murder them — I don't know which — and then march leisurely to Karsokov. They will arrive there before midnight, while the Cossacks and the officials are drinking and feasting, and it will be an easy matter to plunder the arsenal, seize the street cannon, liberate all the prisoners, and gain complete possession of the town."

"And what do they hope to gain by that?" asked Ivor.

Gogol shrugged his shoulders. "They will seize the coaling vessels in the harbor," he replied, "and cross to the mainland. Even if the plan succeeds, though, they will pay dearly for their folly sooner or later. They can't escape from Siberia. The leaders of the plot are Rustem and our German room mate Schmidt. Both are desperate men. They were formerly members of a band of robbers and assassins who operated in southern Russia. They have already communicated their plans to sixty of the convicts, and the rest will doubtless join when the time comes."

"But what promise have you made?" exclaimed Ivor. "You surely did not agree to join them?"

"No, I refused to have anything to do with the affair. I told Rustem, however, that the secret would be safe with us. If the poor wretches think they can escape let them try it. I don't wonder that they are driven to desperation by what they suffer here. Besides, if I had not made the promise the rascals would doubtless have murdered me."

"But think of the terrible results that may follow,'' whispered Ivor in horror stricken tones. "Here and at Karsokov murder will certainly be committed. If these wretched fellows gain possession of the town they will exact an awful revenge for their sufferings. And you and I will be held accountable, whether we join the uprising or not. It would be wiser for us to give warning, Gogol —indeed it is our duty."

"Our duty!" muttered Gogol bitterly. "If I saved the lives of the governor and the commandant a hundred times over it would not get me away from this accursed place, or lessen my sufferings by one degree. I have good reason to know that.

Ivor was startled to hear this, so exactly did it fit his own case. Well he knew that any service rendered to the authorities would count for nothing against the influence of Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg. For a moment he was tempted to join the conspirators and take the desperate chances of escape.

"What do I owe the Russian government that I should take any risk to do it a service?" resumed Gogol in a hoarse whisper striking his hands excitedly together. "In no other country is such vile treachery possible as that which sent me here. I am as innocent as an unborn babe, but I became dangerous to certain powerful persons, and this is the result. There is no redress. No one will believe my story. Did I not respect myself as all honest men should, I would join the mutineers, hand and heart, and shed blood as eagerly as any of them. Wretches though they be I can sympathize with them, and their plans — Hark! the guards are coming. Not a word of this, Ivor. I will tell you more tonight."

Footsteps echoed along the corridor, and lights flashed through the crevices of the wall. Then the door was flung open, and Cossacks entered with lanterns, shouting loudly, "Turn out, you dogs, turn out!"

In a moment the weary men were up ready for their meager breakfast, which was already being brought in. Roll call followed, and when the first glimmer of dawn was lighting the wintry landscape, the shivering convicts, nearly two hundred strong, were marching over the snow crust. Thirty Cossacks, armed with Berdan rifles, formed their sole escort.

That day the men were employed in hauling broken coal from the mine galleries to the big sheds that stood outside the main shaft. Ivor could think of nothing but the startling news he had just heard, and he resolved to make another appeal to Gogol at the first opportunity. He felt all too keenly the enormous burden of responsibility that would rest upon him if he allowed the threatened uprising to take place. His conscience revolted at the commission of a crime that would surely result in pillage and bloodshed. The desired opportunity did not come until five o'clock in the afternoon, when the men stopped work and gathered in groups outside the mine, waiting for the hot tea which was to warm their stiffened limbs for the weary tramp to the prison. The Cossacks stood about the fires, holding their hands to the blaze, and heaping wood under the kettles. At a little distance the rifles were stacked in glistening circles, their muzzles turned to the gray sky. In the background was the rugged, pine clad slope of the mountain, and to the westward, over the fields of frozen snow, a glimpse of the blue sea was visible.

When the tin cups of tea were handed around Ivor and Gogol found themselves together. Not far away was a group of a dozen, conspicuous among whom were Rustem and Schmidt. Each group, in fact, seemed to contain one or more of the most turbulent spirits — a circumstance that was not observed by the Cossacks.

"I have been thinking all day about what you told me this moving," said Ivor in a whisper. "This thing must be prevented, Gogol. Won't you change your mind and give me permission to speak to Lieutenant Berg before it is too late?"

"No," said Gogol. "If you had suffered torments for three long years, as I have done, you would be of a different mind. Besides, would you send these poor fellows to the gibbet by informing on them?"

"But no names need be mentioned," persisted Ivor. "A brief warning will be sufficient. Think of what will happen in Karsokov if these fiends are let loose upon the town. They will murder every one that comes in their way. There is one person whom I should like to save from harm — a young girl with golden hair and the most beautiful face, I think, I ever saw. Perhaps you know who she is. I saw her only once, as I was being led into the prison. I shall never forget the look of sympathy and pity she gave me."

"Ah! is she still there?" exclaimed Gogol in a husky tone. "I had forgotten her. You mean Sonia, the daughter of Captain Komaroff. God bless her kind heart! She interfered one day when the Cossacks were treating me brutally. She reminded me of one like her — one whom I loved years ago, when I was a stripling like you. Poor girl! she died one week before our marriage day —"

Gogol's voice broke, and he was silent for a moment.

"If I thought Sonia Komaroff was in danger," he resumed, "I would send every one of these scoundrels to the gibbet rather than let them carry out their plans."

"Hush! not so loud. Rustem is looking this way," said Ivor. "Then you will warn Lieutenant Berg?" he went on eagerly. "I knew you would not let this bloody thing go on Gogol. Your repentance would be lifelong."

Yes, I will interfere before it is too late," said Gogol firmly. "Thank God that my eyes have been opened in time! This very night I will seek an opportunity of speaking to Lieutenant Berg."

But it was even then too late. As Gogol's glance rested on the scattered groups of convicts his eyes dilated with alarm.

"Ivor," he whispered, "there is something wrong. The men are plotting mischief. Rustem and Schmidt are making signs to the others. Look at the stupid Cossacks warming themselves at the fire, while their rifles are half a dozen feet away. Can it be possible that the villains lied to me about the time they had fixed upon —"

A shrill whistle drowned Gogol's worlds. The sound came from Rustem's lips, and its significance was made instantly plain. Fully a hundred convicts, who had purposely grouped themselves near the fires, made a simultaneous rush forward. In the twinkling of an eye the stacked rifles had been seized, and the mutineers made furiously at the startled soldiers.

Lieutenant Berg and Kridloff the overseer were brave men, and in the face of such a totally unexpected danger they did not lose their presence of mind."

"Fall in line there, you mutinous dogs!" cried the lieutenant, hoping to quell the riot by the force of habit. He was answered by jeering cries. Drawing a revolver, he shot the foremost of the rebels dead. Half a dozen rifles instantly replied, and the plucky officer fell forward on his face. Kridloff met with a similar fate while rashly trying to enforce Lieutenant Berg's orders. Riddled with bullets he fell to the ground, staining the snow with his life blood.

The seventy or eighty convicts who had hot been in the plot were not slow to join the winning side, and against such overwhelming numbers the Cossacks were powerless. Some who resisted were mercilessly shot down. The others were surrounded and captured, and bound with ropes. The death of the two hated officers seemed to have temporarily satisfied the blood thirsty passions of the mutineers.

Meanwhile Ivor and Gogol had witnessed the brief affair with emotions of the utmost horror. So absorbed were they in the scene that they quite forgot their own peculiar situation. They might easily have escaped, for they had been standing in the background when the outbreak occurred. Now Rustem perceived them, and hurried to the spot with a couple of his fellow convicts.

"You will join us now," he cried triumphantly. "Everything is in our hands. There goes Schmidt with one hundred men to capture the handful of Cossacks at the prison. Not one will get away to give the alarm. By midnight Karsokov will be in our possession. Come, arm yourselves with picks and shovels."

Gogol and Ivor exchanged hasty glances. It was a moment of deadly peril. Should they cast in their lot with the rebels or hold aloof from such dangerous associates?

Rustem was not slow to interpret their hesitation, and his swarthy face flushed with anger.

"You dogs of cowards," he cried, "I give you brief time to choose. Come with us or die. It was well I deceived you as to the appointed time, else you had surely betrayed us.; Answer quickly, for I have no time to idle here."

He pulled back the hammer of his rifle, and raised the weapon menacingly. Gogol showed no sign of fear. His glance went swiftly to the scene of the late struggle, and rested there a brief instant. Half of the convicts had already vanished in the shadows, on their way to the prison. The rest were at a little distance, waiting Rustem's return to start off with the captured Cossacks.

With a lightning-like movement Gogol sprang forward, wrested the rifle from the Turk's grasps and whirling the stock around struck the ruffian a stunning blow on the arm.

"Run, Ivor," he cried, and away they went, plunging with great strides over the snow crust.

Rustem and his two companions started in pursuit, yelling loudly to attract the others, but the fugitives kept well in the lead. They circled around the angle of the coal sheds, and then took to the thickets that lined the base of the mountain. Their confidence was all the greater because they knew their pursuers were unarmed. The darkness helped them to escape observation, and when they reached a belt of pine forest, and plunged into the shelter of the trees, they felt reasonably safe for the present.

They ran on, however, for nearly ten minutes. Then they stopped to listen. The forest was quite still. Not a sound could be heard.

"They have given up the chase," said Gogol. "They have no time to waste, and well they know it. They will make all the more speed toward Karsokov now that we are free."

"We must be the first to reach the town," cried Ivor. "It is a misfortune that we ran in the wrong direction."

"True; I did not think of that at the time," assented Gogol. "Moreover it will be dangerous to go back. The strip of land between the mountain and the coast is very narrow, and the assassins will watch for us. There is only one thing we can do."

"What is that?"

"Cross the mountain ridge, and follow the course of the next valley southward. It comes out a mile from Karsokov."

This plan was discussed more fully, and adopted. The thirty or more Cossacks at the prison would without doubt be overpowered and captured, and it was Gogol's opinion that the convicts would leave them behind, safely locked up, when they started for Karsokov. The delay might enable the fugitives to get a slight start. Even with this they realized the necessity of traveling with the utmost speed their strength would permit. It would be a risky undertaking to try to pass the convicts on the same side of the mountain. Rustem would certainly have men on the watch.

The cold blooded murder of Lieutenant Berg and the overseer showed the temper of the convicts, and made it only too plain that terrible results would ensue if the desperate band fell upon Karsokov unawares. Both Gogol and Ivor were resolved to spare no pains to reach the town in time to give ample warning, and without delay they started up the mountain side. Fortunately it was not very steep at this point, and twenty minutes' climb brought them to the summit.

As they stopped here an instant to regain breath a dull sound of firing came from the west, and ruddy streaks could be seen flashing athwart the darkness. The meaning of this was only too plain. A struggle was taking place between the convicts and the soldiers within the prison.

"It can only end in one way," said Gogol. "The mob are desperate, and when they break in they will slaughter the Cossacks to a man. There! the firing has ceased. The convicts will soon be marching on Karsokov, so we had better not loiter here. You must bear in mind that our road will be much harder to travel than theirs."

The firing was indeed over, and as quickly as possible the fugitives descended the mountain and reached the valley. Scanty food and hard toil in the mines had so weakened their once vigorous frames that they were far from being in good condition for a twelve mile tramp. But the knowledge of what was at stake drove them onward with unflagging energy, and they felt neither weariness nor the intense cold.

The road was indeed rugged, as Gogol had predicted, but the trough of the valley, through which ran a brawling stream, was comparatively open. There was no moon, but the whiteness of the snow covered faintly revealed the obstructing rocks and trees.

For mile after mile the two anxious messengers toiled on. Frequently they fell, sustaining severe bruises, and more than once they slipped waist deep into the treacherous, ice rimmed pools that lay in their path. Nor did the journey lack more serious dangers. At one point they made a detour up the slope of the mountain to avoid a pair of belligerent musk oxen who were making the valley ring with their angry snorting. Later on a bear chased them for fully half a mile. Gogol feared to make use of his rifle lest the convicts should hear the report, and be impelled to greater speed.

When Karsokov was still two or three miles distant pine and spruce timber began to encroach on the very borders of the stream, and this last stretch of the journey seemed longer than all the preceding leagues. Ivor was now fairly staggering with weariness, and even Gogol was beginning to break down, though he was unwilling to admit it.

At last the mountains fell abruptly away, and as the weary fugitives staggered from the mouth of the valley they saw, less than a mile distant, the winkling lights of Karsokov.

CHAPTER VI

The silence was far from being proof that the mutineers were not close upon Karsokov. Under the efficient leadership of Rustem and Schmidt they would take every precaution to make their arrival at the town a complete surprise. Ivor and Gogol knew this, and while crossihg the intervening space they momentarily dreaded to hear the first guns of the attack. But the stillness remained unbroken when they reached the outskirts of the town, and this very fact lulled them into a false idea of security. They desired, naturally, to communicate their tidings to the governor himself, and lest this object should be thwarted they resolved to avoid the sentinels posted before the various buildings, and gain the governor's house unperceived. Far better had they given an immediate alarm at the prison and the barracks, and thus prevented — in all probability — the terrible events that the night was destined to witness.

It was not difficult to pass through the town unseen. The civil population were abed, and the glimmer of the scattered lamps did not penetrate far among the trees that bordered the streets. By keeping in the rear of the main street the fugitives ran little risk of being discovered by the sentries. They soon had ample proof that the information furnished to the convicts at the mines was correct. Only half the usual number of Cossacks were stationed before the prison, and at the barracks, which adjoined, but one soldier was on duty. This poor fellow was pacing moodily up and down, no doubt inwardly cursing the hard fate that barred him from the pleasures his companions were enjoying.

From the long hall within came bursts of jovial laughter, mingled with the popping of corks and the clink of glasses. Through a rear window Gogol and Ivor saw the soldiers seated around five large tables, which were heaped profusely with food and drink. The number present was about a hundred or a hundred and fifty. It was true, then, that half the usual force had been dispatched to Vladivostok. The convicts could not have chosen a better time for their outbreak,

Passing noiselessly around the barracks Ivor and Gogol glanced at the arsenal — where two or three men were stationed — and then crossed a side street to the governor's house.

Here there were few sounds. Some one was playing a piano within, and dark figures could be seen crossing the brilliantly lighted rooms.

As the fugitives emerged from the shadow of the trees, they were challenged and then roughly seized by the Cossacks on duty before the door. The commotion brought out a young officer, who angrily demanded to know what was the matter.

"We have a message for the governor," said Ivor, "and must see him at once."

"A likely story," laughed the officer. "I know you both, you dogs. You have escaped from the mines."

"That is true. Welcome from the mines," said Gogol. "Take us to the governor instantly, or the delay will cost you dear. It is a matter of life and death."

The officer flushed with anger, and made a movement as though to draw his sword.

"I will repay your insolence at another time," he muttered. "Come! you shall see the governor."

There was a brief delay while the Cossacks searched the fugitives for any weapons they might possess. Then they followed their guide through the hall, and into a large apartment on the right.

The room was furnished in the latest style, and brilliantly lighted by wax candles. Dinner had been over for some time, and the company, numbering about a dozen, were chatting in little groups.

A young girl in evening dress was softly touching the piano, and around a small table containing cigars and liquors sat the governor, Captain Komaroff, and two or three officers. Three other ladies were present, and several civilians — probably Russian merchants of the town.

The entry of the two convicts caused a ripple of astonished mirth to run through the assemblage. In truth they cut a sorry figure in such a place. Their coarse gray cloaks, stiffened with ice, flapped about their legs, and the frost had congealed on their matted beards.

The mirth was succeeded by a brief instant of profound silence. All realized that something serious was at hand, and waited the denouement with quivering anxiety.

Then the governor sprang to his feet and strode forward. "What does this mean?" he cried in an angry voice. "How dare you enter here?"

"We come from the mines at Duli," said Ivor, in a clear, firm tone. "The convicts mutinied at five o'clock this evening. They murdered their officers and overpowered the guards. They are on their way now to seize the town and liberate the other prisoners. We escaped to bring the news.

The governor turned suddenly pale, and a groan escaped his lips. Two or three women shrieked, and the men arose in a body and approached the door, fumbling at their sword belts. The girl at the piano swung around on her stool, revealing the beautiful face that Ivor had never forgotten. Their eyes met, and he felt the hot blood surge strangely through his veins.

At first none could realize the stupendous meaning of the message that had been brought. A hum of questioning voices arose, and two or three officers, more cool headed than the others, rushed out of the house.

"If you are deceiving us your necks will stretch on the gibbet," cried Captain Komaroff. "The news you bring is incredible."

"But father, these men are surely speaking the truth," interrupted his daughter. "They have come all this distance to warn us in time."

She cast a grateful glance of sympathy at Ivor and Gogol.

"Yes, we are telling the truth," cried Ivor hoarsely. "There is not a moment to lose if you would save your lives."

His words and manner carried conviction with them, and the governor held a hasty conference with the officers present. It was evident that no one realized the magnitude of the danger. Indignation at the audacity of the convicts was the uppermost feeling. Quick action was taken, however, and Captain Komaroff hurried away to interrupt the feast at the barracks, and prepare the soldiers for the expected attack.

"Don't be alarmed, ladies," said the governor pompously. "We are quite able to cope with this rabble. Duty compels me to leave you, but I hope to return shortly with reassuring news. Here, Neil," he added to his son, a light haired young fellow of twenty, "I appoint you in charge during my absence. Keep an eye on these two convicts, and see that they have food and drink. They are brave fellows, and look pretty well worn out."

The governor threw his military cloak around him and left the room. Hardly had his footsteps crunched on the crisp snow outside, when the quiet of the town was shattered by a rattling volley of musketry. More shots succeeded, and an instant later a deafening fusillade was in progress. Ferocious yells rose on the night air, and the sound of crashing timbers. The rifle fire increased, and to crown the tumult the great brazen bell of the prison pealed with loud, irregular strokes.

The governor's guests were thrown into in state of panic which young Riskin was powerless to allay, in spite of his fervent promises of protection. Only Sonia, the commandant's daughter, seemed to show no trace of fear, though the color had receded from her face, leaving it of marble whiteness. To Gogol and Ivor the tumult meant the worst. They knew that the town would shortly be at the mercy of the mutineers. They offered their services to the young Russian, but were rudely repulsed — an act that brought a blush of indignation to Sonia's cheeks.

"Keep down your temper," whispered Gogol to his companion. "That insolent fellow will learn a severe lesson before morning.''

The rifle firing and the yelling of the desperate mutineers was now deafening. A stray bullet shattered one of the windows, proving clearly the imminence of the danger, and Ivor resolved at any risk to make an effort to secure the safety of the commandant's daughter. A hasty glance to the hall revealed no weapons of defense, and he was about to search other parts of the house when the governor and Captain Komaroff rushed in, followed by two officers, and the three Cossacks who had been on duty outside of the house.

"We must leave here without a moment's delay," cried the commandant. "My house is well adapted for defense, and we will try to reach it. We can't escape to the forests, for the whole town is in possession of the convicts. They have liberated all the other prisoners, broken into the arsenal, and are now shooting down the troops in barracks. Their feasting will cost them dear, for they are all stupid with vodka."

"Yes," added the governor hoarsely, "the mutinous dogs are at least four hundred strong by this time. We are at their mercy."

Hurried preparations were made for the start, and Ivor and Gogol, who had lost all sense of fatigue in their excitement, volunteered their fighting services, and begged for arms.

"You shall have them as soon as we reach my house," promised Captain Komaroff. "Luckily I have a small arsenal there."

At this juncture the two missing officers burst into the room, and created fresh consternation by the tidings they brought. The troops in barracks had all been either shot down or captured, they reported, and the mutineers had seized the entire contents of the arsenal. In all probability the governor's house would be next attacked.

In the face of this alarming possibility the intention of saving some of the governor's valuables was at once abandoned. The front of the house was locked up, and after a cautious survey all passed out through the rear, and by way of the garden reached the narrow street which led to the commandant's residence. The shouts of the triumphant convicts could be heard in all directions, and a rattling noise showed that they were pressing into service the cannon that lined the main street. It might have been possible to escape from the town without discovery, but two things prevented the adoption of such a course. In the first place, the weather was too severe, and besides, it was the bounden duty of the officers to stick to their posts as long as possible. The Russian government would never have pardoned their wholesale desertion of Karsokov at such a time.

So their only hope lay in turning the commandant's house into a fortress and holding it against possible attacks. Very happily they arrived there without attracting observation, and were soon safely inside, much to the joy of the commandant's faithful servants, who had remained at their post in spite of all the commotion.

The house was a large one, though Captain Komaroff and his daughter were the sole occupants, his wife having been dead some years. It was built of heavy logs, and was two stories high, with an octagonal tower rising from the roof. The doors and window shutters were massive, and amply provided with bolts and bars. It had been constructed for purposes of defense years before, when Saghalien belonged to Japan, and fanatical attacks on foreign merchants and traders were of frequent occurrence.

The party that now took possession of it numbered twenty in all, and their hearts felt considerably lighter when Captain Komaroff opened the door of the arsenal room, and displayed stacks of rifles and cases of loaded cartridges. The men were soon armed, and then food and drink were passed around. After making sure that the fastenings of the doors and windows were all in place, Gogol and Ivor were called upon to relate more fully what had occurred at the mines, and their story was listened to with the deepest interest.

Meanwhile two of the Cossacks had been sent out to reconnoiter. They returned with alarming information. The convicts had shot down forty or fifty of the soldiers, and the rest were bound and locked up in the barrack hall, where the most desperate fighting had taken place. The mob were getting beyond the control of their leaders. Already they had destroyed the machinery in the mill and workshops, and now some were plundering the governor's house, helping themselves to his valuables and fine liquors, while others were rushing through the town, robbing the inhabitants and ravaging the shops.

Captain Komaroff ground his teeth with rage. "The gibbet will have a fine harvest when this thing is over," he exclaimed. "If the authority is given me I will hang every one of the scoundrels."

"Hang them if you wish, when the time comes," said the governor. "At present the tables are decidedly turned on us. Do you think we can hold out here long enough?"

"Yes," replied the commandant confidently, "I do the convicts won't meddle with us long if they encounter a vigorous resistance. They will turn all their energies to escaping, especially since they must know that three companies of troops are due now from Vladivostok."

"The convicts don't expect the ship here for a week," Ivor ventured, to say.

"Then they will find out their mistake before long," replied the commandant. "I am satisfied that we can hold out until the vessel arrives. It is even possible that we shall not be attacked at all. There are so many other places to plunder. I think some of us had better sleep while we have the opportunity," he added. "It is long after midnight. I will go up in the tower first, and see what the indications are."

Ivor requested permission to accompany him, and rather to his surprise it was granted. Half a dozen in all followed Captain Komaroff up the perpendicular ladder that led from the second floor to the tower. Here was a small apartment, barely large enough to hold them, from which opened eight square windows.

Little could be seen of the town save at those scattered localities where the street lamps reflected a feeble glare, but it became evident the moment the window sashes were raised, that something unusual was about to occur. No shooting, smashing of glass, or pounding on doors could be heard. The only sounds that broke the stillness were the deep, continuous roar of human voices, and the crunch of countless feet on the brittle snow. The relentless tread came nearer. The din of human throats grew louder. The mob was now at the intersection of the main street and the narrow thoroughfare on which the commandant's house faced. The black mass could be faintly seen as it wheeled around in tumultuous disorder.

The excited cries of the leaders rang distinctly above the general tumult.

"Kill the commandant!" yelled one ruffian, "and the governor too. We'll find them both in the same nest."

Others chimed in with savage shouts of: "Revenge! Revenge! Kill Colonel Riskin! Kill Captain Komaroff! Remember our wrongs!"

Inflamed with passion and drink the mob quickened their speed, and suddenly their bearded faces and gleaming rifle barrels appeared in a ray of light that shone from a lamp only fifty yards up the street.

Captain Komaroff was perfectly cool as he dropped the window sashes into place. "It is time to go down," he said quietly. "We will show these dogs that all Karsokov is not in their possession yet."

They descended to the lower floor without undue haste, and broke the news to the others. The shouting of the convicts now came distinctly through the solid walls of the house. They were almost before the door.

The women were badly terrified, but the commandant's daughter, who seemed to have considerable influence over them, succeeded in quieting their fears, and they were taken to a rear room where they would be less exposed to danger.

The sixteen men on whom the defense of the house rested were resolute and determined fellows. Not one coward was among them. For Ivor and Gogol there existed a double incentive to fight well. Each had the same hope in his heart, that if he came out of the struggle alive he would be rewarded by an investigation into the false charge that had doomed him to penal servitude. The governor and the commandant had shown plainly that they were grateful to the convicts for what they had done.

Another resolve lurked deep in Ivor's heart — a resolve to defend Sonia Komaroff with his heart's blood if necessary. He felt a strange sense of exultation in the fact that the fair young girl was near him, and might have need of him before the night was over. He shut his eyes to the future.

Briefly and plainly Captain Komaroff instructed his men in the line of defense he had mapped out. He personally saw to it that each rifle was in good condition, and that plenty of ammunition was within easy reach. Then succeeded a brief interval of waiting. The narrow street without was blocked by the noisy mob. The leaders were evidently trying to make themselves heard, but amid the confusion their efforts were in vain. For the same reason it was impossible for Captain Komaroff to warn the convicts what they might expect if they persisted in their purpose. The warning would have been useless, however, as the commandant knew well.

Suddenly a violent assault was commenced on the door and the shutters. This was kept up for two or three moments, and then, seeing the futility of their efforts, the ruffians desisted. The next move was equally harmless. Hundreds of rifles were fired, and the bullets imbedded themselves deeply in the massive timbers. The leaden rain fell for sortie timey and finally subsided to a few straggling shots.

There was a lull in the storm, but it only portended greater activity to come. Above the yelling of the mob a crashing noise was heard, and then, with a steady crunch, a heavy mass was dragged across the frozen street.

"Remember your instructions men," said Captain Komaroff. "We shall have hot work on our hands in a moment or two. The scoundrels have torn away the pillars from the Greek chapel, and are going to use them for battering rams. The walls will hardly stand against them."

CHAPTER VII

The commandant's prediction was verified almost as the words left his lips. The heavy beam hammered the shutters unceasingly, and the timbers, stout though they were, began to creak and tremble. The mob roared triumphantly, and pressed close to the building.

Crash! In fell the shutter, carrying sash and splintered panes with it, and through the gaping orifice a momentary glimpse was had of the savage horde who filled the narrow street from house to house.

Captain Komaroff's voice rang clearly through the room. "Fire, men!"

Sixteen rifles poured their deadly contents through the broken shutter, and ere the stunning reverberations had ceased cries of rage and of mortal agony rose on the night air.

Dead and dying lay heaped in front of the house as a second volley was quickly delivered with terrible effect.

The convicts fell back before the leaden rain, and the defenders took advantage of this to roll a massive oaken sideboard against the broken window. A couch and a table still further strengthened the barricade, and the men intrenched themselves behind it just as the enemy turned their rifles on the window. Hundreds of shots were fired, and more than one bullet found its way through the cracks, and buried itself in the opposite wall. A Cossack who imprudently tried to cross the room was shot in the head, and died instantly. There was no time to waste sorrow over this occurrence. The body was quickly carried to a fear apartment and covered with a sheet.

The fusillade now ceased, and the convicts attempted to batter down the barricade. They soon desisted, however, for Captain Komaroff ordered his men to fire through the crevices, and the shots did deadly execution among those who were driving the pillars. A brief lull ensued, which was employed to good advantage by bringing heavy articles of furniture from the other rooms. It was certain that they would be needed in a short time.

The convicts next turned their attention to another window, and began a furious attack on the shutters with their battering rams. They seemed bent on keeping up the siege in spite of the terrible losses they had sustained. Their leaders were quite in accord with them, and at times the voices of Rustem and Schmidt could be distinguished as they gave commands or urged their followers on. A thirst for revenge rather than a desire for escape was now the motive that actuated the convicts.

The window was soon forced in, and the results were precisely the same as before. A desperate rifle fire drove the enemy back with great loss of life, and the gap was quickly barricaded with heavy articles of furniture, and doors that had been removed from their hinges.

The governor and the commandant were elated by the success of the defense and this hopeful feeling was shared by the others. More furniture was brought down from the upper floor of the house, and a strong barricade was wisely built against the heavy oaken door which opened on the street. The attack how centered here, and the tumult outside became perfectly deafening. Every stroke of the battering ram was greeted with hoarse yells, and rifles cracked intermittently. The besiegers were getting by far the worst of it, however, for a steady fire through the chinks of the barricaded windows laid many a ruffian low.

It may seem strange that during all this time no attention had been paid to the rear of the house. The truth of the matter was, however, that Captain Komaroff had but little fear on this score. The house abutted on a small garden which was inclosed by a ten foot stone wall. At the base of the wall, on three sides, was a shallow ditch, now partially choked with snow and ice. Surrounding houses and gardens made the place difficult of approach, and Captain Komaroff was therefore justified in thinking that such formidable obstacles would deter the convicts from making an attack on the rear. But the captain underrated the desperate nature of the foes with whom he had to deal.

The apartment in which the women had been placed for safety opened on the garden. Just when the assault on the front of the house had reached the point above described, Sonia Komaroff heard crunching footsteps on the snow, and then the handle of the door was tried. An instant later a soft rap echoed on the panels

The women were terribly alarmed, and declared that some of the enemy were outside. But Sonia was of a different mind. If any of the convicts were in the garden it was extremely unlikely that they would make known their presence in this way.

Going close to the door she called resolutely, "Who is there?

"For God's sake let me in," came the distinct and immediate answer from the other side of the door. " I am Corporal Stanislov. I have narrowly escaped with my life, and am badly wounded."

Corporal Stanislov was one of the officers who superintended the shoe-making department of the prison workshops. It was quite natural that he should have escaped and come to the rear of the commandant's house.

"Wait a moment," cried Sonia, and with nimble fingers she hastily undid the holts and bars of the door. Fatal mistake! Before she could lay hands on the latch the door was pushed inward by a gigantic ruffian wearing the gray convict uniform, and a score of savage faces appeared behind him.

"The commandant's daughter! Here's luck!" cried the burly leader, who was none other than Schmidt. "Come on, comrades. One bold rush and the house will be ours."

He seized the terrified girl roughly, and with one piercing scream she fainted in his arms. The three other women fortunately had sufficient presence of mind to rush into the next room, and their shrill cries reached the hearing of those who were defending the house, and apprised them of the terrible truth. The foes in the street were forgotten, and the entire party dashed to the rear, to cope with this new danger.

The attack from the garden had been devised by the German convict Schmidt, and to aid him in the undertaking he had chosen a score of men on whom he knew he could rely. With ladders procured from the prison they scaled the walls, and what Schmidt had counted on from the first was verified — that the women would be in one of the rear rooms, and could be induced by stratagem to open the door. For the rest Schmidt proposed to rush into the house, protected by the tumult going on in the street, and shoot down the defenders — whose numbers he considerably underestimated — before they could recover from the shock of surprise. But this latter part of the plan miscarried. It was frustrated, in fact, by the three-women, who upset and extinguished the candle that was burning in the rear room, as they fled forward.

The convicts crowded into the apartment, and in the darkness fumbled confusedly for the door that led to the front of the house. While they were thus engaged Captain Komaroff and his men arrived on the scene. The advantage was all on their side, and guided by the faint light that shone from the garden, they poured a relentless fife into the crowded mass of the enemy.

The result was simple. The convicts were in such confusion that they could make little use of their weapons, and in the utmost terror they struggled toward the door, shrieking and cursing, and trampling the dead and dying under foot.

The commandant was quick to follow up his success, and the carnage was renewed in the garden, where the convicts made a brief stand. They succeeded in shooting down one of the officers who was by Captain Komaroff's side, and then, finding the odds against them, they fled to the scaling ladders, and dropped pell mell into the ditch. More than one ruffian was lifeless when he reached the bottom, for as they passed the top of the wall they offered an easy target to the commandant's party.

Ivor and Gogol took an active part in this final act of the brief tragedy, but before it was quite over Gogol tapped his companion on the shoulder. "Look!" he cried excitedly. "Do you see that?"

The old man was pointing to the extreme end of the garden, where the rear wall was visible through a gap in the trees. It so happened that a light burning in the upper window of an adjoining house shed a dim ray on the spot, and as Ivor looked he saw a man, bearing a motionless form in his arms, scale the wall and disappear on the other side. That brief glimpse sufficed for Ivor to recognize both. The man was Schmidt, and the young girl in his arms was Sonia Komaroff. Her white dress and floating golden hair were unmistakable.

Gogol, too, recognized her. "It is the commandant's daughter," he exclaimed. "The wretch is carrying her off — no doubt from pure hatred and revenge."

Ivor's brain seemed to swim for an instant. There was no time to tell the others what had happened. They were firing away at the side wall, close to the house, over which the convicts were escaping. A moment's delay might prove fatal to the chances of rescue.

"Gogol, we must save her," he cried. "We must. Think of the poor girl in the power of that wretch. Come on, quick!"

He dashed down the garden like an arrow, and Gogol plunged after him. None observed their flight, nor had the absence of the girl been discovered.

On reaching the end of the garden the manner of Schmidt's exit was easily discovered. The wall was crumbling and jagged, and being a strong man he had been able to pull himself to the top by catching hold of the projections. No doubt he had fled in this direction with his captive as soon as he escaped from the house. Ivor and Gogol mounted the wall in the same way, keeping a tight hold on their rifles. Peering over they saw that the ditch was empty as far as each angle. Had the scoundrel already joined his companions?

"Come on, he shan't escape us," cried Ivor. He dropped to the ground. Gogol followed his example, and when they stood side by side in the bottom of the ditch and looked at the barrier of stone rising sheer above them for fifteen feet, they suddenly realized that it was impossible to return. Not a projection or crevice could be seen on the outer side of the wall. They were hopelessly cut off from their friends, and might be exposed to the fury of the mob at any minute.

But the thought of their own danger was, at the moment, as nothing compared to their desperate purpose of rescuing the captive. They turned instinctively toward the right, and hurried around the angle of the wall. They would have gone madly on, heading straight for the narrow street where the convicts were still assaulting the house with desperate fury, had not Gogol espied an iron gate, partly open, which led in to a walled garden on the opposite side of the ditch.

What could hardly have been more than a mere impulse led him to suggest to Ivor that they should search there for the missing girl. Hastily clambering up the side of the ditch they entered the gateway, and found themselves in a much larger garden than the commandant's. Half a dozen yards from the wall, on the snowy ground, lay Sonia Komaroff. Schmidt was on his knees beside her, chafing her tiny hands between his own.

The sound of crunching footsteps brought the convict to his feet in alarm, but at sight of Ivor and Gogol he seemed reassured. It was very evident that he did not recognize them. Their gray uniforms naturally deceived him, and he supposed them to be two of his comrades who had followed him up.

"Bear a hand here," he cried. "This stupid girl has fainted. We must get her to a place of shelter. That bloodthirsty tyrant Komaroff will know what it is to suffer when he finds his daughter missing. I will —"

He drew back in sudden fear as Ivor and Gogol strode menacingly toward him. Then the truth flashed upon his mind. The odds were against him, and he had not the courage to attempt resistance. He turned and fled through the gate, shouting loudly for help.

Sonia was safe for the present and with a thrill of emotion Ivor lifted her in his arms. The slender form seemed no burden to him. Her eyelids were fluttering, and the color was returning to her cheeks. She would soon awake to a consciousness of her position. Gogol hastily exchanged his own weapon for Schmidt's repeating rifle, and took a survey from the gate.

"Here come a dozen of the ruffians," he cried, rejoining Ivor. "The German is at their head. They will show us scant mercy if we fall into their hands."

"Which way shall we go?" Ivor asked. "We are hopelessly cut off from the commandant's house."

"Push through the garden," rejoined Gogol. "Give me the girl, if she is too heavy/'

Ivor half indignantly refused. He would not have parted with his burden if the weight had been twice as great.

The situation was critical, and called for immediate action. The pursuing convicts were clattering noisily through the ditch, and seemed to be within a few yards of the gate. The assault on the commandant's house still continued, apparently with as little effect as before. For the present the convicts had evidently abandoned their original intention of escaping to the mainland.

Side by side the fugitives hurried through the garden, keeping under cover of the trees and shrubbery as much as possible. They came presently to a house — the residence of some Russian merchant — but the doors and windows were tightly barred, and no light was visible within.

Schmidt and his ferocious followers were now half way through the garden, tracing the fugitives by their tracks in the snow crust. In another moment they would reach the house.

At this critical juncture Ivor noticed a dark blotch on the surface of the garden wall. Inspection revealed a rusty iron gate, which was with difficulty torn open, and the fugitives found themselves in a side street. Their exit was discovered, as a volley of rifle balls testified clearly enough.

"On! on!" cried Gogol, leading the way. Ivor followed, bearing the now half conscious girl, and they pushed rapidly down the street, seeking right and left for a place of shelter. Schmidt and a dozen convicts were close in their rear, yelling hideously, and now from the main street, toward which they were running, issued another mob, a full score strong, drawn thither by the shouts of their comrades.

Thus caught between two fires the fugitives felt that hope was ended.

The open door of a house offered a last resource, and on dashing through it they found themselves in a bake shop. The proprietor had evidently fled in haste, but as yet the mob had not paid the place a visit. Freshly baked loaves were in the trays, and a candle, burnt nearly to the end, stood on the counter.

Gogol slammed the door shut, bolted and barred it, and in addition made a barricade of all the furniture he could find. By this time the mob was outside, and immediately a violent assault began. The door groaned under the attack, and bullets tore through the crevices of the logs, driving showers of mortar in all directions.

The fugitives fled to the bakery kitchen, taking the candle with them, and thence gained the second floor by a narrow staircase. This was the only possible retreat, for the convicts had already surrounded the house.

The second floor had three apartments, and the middle one of these was chosen for the last desperate resistance. The top of the staircase was in a corridor outside, and Gogol hastily choked it up with all the furniture he could find. Then both doors of the room were barricaded, and the shutters of the one window were drawn.

Meanwhile Ivor laid his burden on a rude couch, and placed the candle on a chair near by. The girl opened her eyes, and took a quick survey of the room and its occupants. Then she uttered a little cry and sat up.

"How did I get here? Where is, my father?" she asked pitifully. "Oh! I remember now. The door was broken in, and the convict with the black beard tried to take hold of me." She sank back, and covered her face with her hands as though to shut out some dreadful sight.

Ivor was deeply affected by her distress. As briefly as possible he told her all that had happened, not even omitting the perilous state of their present situation.

Sonia Komaroff received the bad news as Ivor had expected her to receive it. She made his heart beat rapidly by her grateful words of thanks. There was a touch of hauteur in her manner, however, that warned Ivor of the gulf that was fixed between himself, a degraded convict, and this daughter of a proud and powerful Russian officer.

Further conversation was rendered impossible at this point by the renewed attack of the convicts. Under the rain of clubs, stones, and gun stocks the door tumbled in, barricade and all, and the bloodthirsty wretches were soon swarming through the lower rooms. They found the staircase, and began the ascent, tearing away the obstructing furniture piece by piece. Their hoarse yells mingled with the crack of rifles. Bullets splintered their way through the floor, and the atmosphere became dim with powder smoke.

The two defenders, pale but resolute, waited the fatal moment when the frail doors would be smashed inward. It was very close now. Ivor's heart was filled with bitter agony — not for himself, but for Sonia. He resolved to defend her to the very last — to die for her sake, and with her.

The staircase was clear now and the convicts were pushing into the corridor, and beating against the door. Another moment would witness the end.

Just when the frail panels were beginning to splinter under the rain of blows a frightful crash was heard, the house shook on its foundations, and the whole side wall of the room fell in amid a shower of splintered stone, beams, and mortar.

Ivor felt a violent blow on the head, and sinking to the floor he lost all consciousness.

CHAPTER VIII

Four bare walls blotched with dirt and cobwebs, a table and two chairs, a bearded head nestled on the pillow of a small cot, a great whitewashed iron stove flaming with heat, and beside it a Russian soldier in his shirt sleeve — this was the scene on which Ivor Petrov's gaze rested when he came back to consciousness after a period that seemed to him like an evil dream.

His limbs were stiff, and his head, which was bound in cloths, ached terribly. He was lying in bed with half his clothes on. His coarse gray jacket and overcoat, ragged and blood stained, hung from a hook on the, wall. He was puzzled to account for these strange surroundings until he recognized Gogol as the occupant of the other bed. This brought his stray conjectures to a focus, and his memory reverted to the dread events of the past. One by one they rose before him — the insurrection at the mines, the flight to Karsokov, the assault on the commandant's house, the abduction of Sonia Komaroff, the rescue achieved by himself and Gogol, and finally the last stand in the room over the baker's shop.

Here memory ceased to be of service, and Ivor lay still for a long time trying to supply the missing link between past and present. It was evening now, to judge from the fading light that entered the room from one small window, and presently the soldier put on his coat and went away.

With an effort Ivor drew himself to an upright position. He was glad to find that he had the use of his limbs.

"Well, lad, how do you feel after your long sleep?"

It was Gogol who spoke. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. His left arm was supported by a sling, and a bandage was wrapped around his forehead.

Ivor uttered an exclamation of joy. "I feared you must have been killed," he said. "As for myself, I am a little weak and dizzy, that is all. But what has happened? How long have we been here?"

"You ask me difficult questions," replied Gogol. "I have an idea that the bake shop in which we took refuge was blown up just as the convicts had broken into the room where we made our last stand. I knew nothing more until this morning when I found myself here in bed

with at broken arm and head. You have been either unconscious or asleep all day. A surgeon and several soldiers have been here, but they refuse to give me any information. I feel pretty sound except for a bad headache.''

"Mine hurts, too," exclaimed Ivor. "But what became of the commandant's daughter? Do you know?"

"I can tell you nothing," replied Gogol, "it is all a blank. Hush! Some one is coming."

Ivor sank wearily back among the pillows as the soldier entered the room, in company with a short, stout man who bore a tray in his arms. This contained broth and crackers, and a portion was speedily placed on each bed. Both patients were hungry, and did full justice to the meal. When they had finished the short man gathered up the dishes and left the room.

The interrupted conversation was not resumed, since the soldier kept a watchful eye upon his prisoners from his seat by the stove. When it finally grew dark he lighted a candle and placed it on the table. Then he took a short pipe from his pocket, and for an hour or more puffed out clouds of smoke.

Ivor lay on the bed, thinking over the recent events in which he had participated. His own future held the least place in his mind. He would have given much to know that Sonia Komaroff was safe. He was unwillingly forced to admit that the chances were against such a conclusion. If he and Gogol had fared so badly in this mysterious catastrophe was it likely that the girl had escaped serious injury — or even death?

Amid such meditations Ivor lapsed into drowsiness. He was vaguely aware that the soldier had left the room, and when soft footsteps crossed the floor a little later he roused himself from his stupor, and sat up. A slender form wrapped in a blue cloak and hood was standing beside the bed. Then the hood was thrown back, and the candle glow revealed the face of Sonia Komaroff.

Ivor's heart beat wildly.

"You!" he gasped. "You are safe, then?"

The intensity of his tone must have revealed something of the strange emotion that he felt. It startled the proud young Russian girl for an instant, and a deep blush mantled her cheeks.

"Yes, I am safe," she said with a touch of hauteur. "That is why I have come here tonight. I owe my life to you and to your brave companion, and the time has arrived when I can pay the debt. You are in great danger — both of you."

"In danger of what?" exclaimed Ivor. "Do the convicts still hold the town, and are we in their power?"

"There is little time to spare, but I will tell you briefly what has happened," said the girl. "You must hear, too," indicating Gogol, "for it concerns both of you."

She paused a moment while Gogol tottered across to Ivor's bed, and sat down on the edge of it. Then she resumed hurriedly: "You probably do not know that the riot is over. About the time that we took refuge in the bake shop the expected steamer arrived in the harbor with two hundred troops on board. The tumult apprised them of what was taking place. They landed immediately, and opened fire on the convicts with two heavy pieces of artillery. It was a stray ball from one of these — an eighty pounder — that shattered the wall of the bake shop and caused your injuries. It also frightened away the ruffians who were trying to force their way into the room, and when the soldiers arrived they thought you were both dead. The surgeon who was sent for declared differently, however, and you were brought to this rear room where you have been lying in a state of unconsciousness until today. I was not injured in the least, but I fainted when the ball crashed through the room."

"When did this happen?" asked Ivor.

"Three days ago," replied the girl. "The fighting was all over by the middle of the next morning. More than half of the convicts voluntarily surrendered, at least a hundred were killed, and the rest are being hunted down by mounted troops. My father and the brave men with him were rescued just in time, for the enemy had trained cannon on the house and were about to batter it down. But I have told you enough of these things. They are slight and unimportant in comparison with what other tidings I bring. Oh! how can I tell you of the unjust belief that even my father shares! It is cruel, cruel."

At this point the girl was almost overpowered by her feelings, but with an effort she recovered her composure.

"Don't think of us," said Ivor. "We have seen too much misery to shrink from another blow."

"Yes, we expect nothing better than to be sent back to the mines," added Gogol in a bitter tone. "Services rendered by a convict count for nothing."

"Ah! it is not that," exclaimed the girl. "The danger that threatens you now is even more terrible. Two leaders of the riot have been captured — a Turk named Rustem, and the German who broke into the house that night by strategy and carried me off. They accuse you two of instigating the riot, and they say your object was to turn traitors to the rest as soon as the insurrection broke out, and thus obtain favor and pardon for yourselves. The other convicts all testify to the same thing, and thus my father and the governor have been led to believe you guilty. This morning I overheard a conversation between them and other officers, and I learned from it that your fate has already been decided. In four days you are both to be hung before the prison in company with Rustem, and Schmidt, and many others."

A groan escaped from Gogol's lips, and Ivor turned very pale. . The blow, was an unexpected one. At the worst they had anticipated nothing more than a return to their old life of misery.

"Rustem and Schmidt are taking this means to revenge themselves on us," exclaimed Ivor hoarsely. "It is easy to see that. They must have arranged the plan beforehand with their companions. But is it possible that your father believes their lies?''

"Yes, he does," replied the girl sadly, "and though I know that you are speaking the truth, and tell him so, it has no effect on him. Schmidt declares that both of you helped to carry me off, and that you quarreled with him because you wanted possession of me yourselves. This, too, my father believes, though I know it to be false. He insists that the evidence is all against you, and that the verdict of the tribunal must take its course."

"Is there no hope, then?" asked Ivor. "Is this to be our reward for bringing the news to Karsokov, and for saving you from that ruffian's clutches? It is hard to die —"

"Ah, hush!" whispered the girl. "Do you think me so ungrateful? I have come to give you what little help lies in my power. It is little indeed compared to the risks which you freely undertook for my sake. In the first place let me tell you that I have many faithful and devoted servants in Karsokov. It fortunately happens that Rolav, the baker who occupies this house, is one of them. Another is the soldier who stands in the garden under your window every night. His name is Sasha. Both would do anything in their power for me, and it is by their aid and connivance that I have been enabled to come here tonight. I must tell you my plan quickly, for I may be interrupted. Hark! what is that? I thought I heard a door open in the front of the house. If I am discovered here it will fare badly with all of us."

She listened intently for a moment, but the sound was not repeated.

"Shall I step into the corridor?" suggested Gogol. "I can hear what goes on down stairs, and give you timely warning. I feel quite able to walk."

"Yes, pray do," answered Sonia. "I shall then feel safe, for if any person enters the front of the house I can escape by the rear. Your friend will explain to you the instructions that I am about to give him."

Gogol at once crossed the room and stationed himself in the hall, leaving the door partly open.

"Pay close attention," said the girl, fixing her gaze on Ivor, "and don't lose a word that I tell you. The surgeon has reported that both of you can safely be transferred to the prison the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow night, then, you must escape. Since you are regarded as being disabled, only ordinary precautions have been taken to guard the house. Two Cossacks are stationed at the front entrance every night, and Sasha, of whom I told you, is on duty in the garden. It was Sasha who stayed in the room with you today. He is now at his post.

"Now here are your instructions. Tomorrow night, an hour or two after dark, you and your companion must creep down stairs and enter the garden by the rear door, which you will find open. Sasha will not molest you, but in order to make it appear that he tried to do his duty you must bind and gag him, and take his gun. The next step will be the most dangerous, and you must be very careful to avoid observation. Go straight to the landing place at the foot of the town, and then follow the road that goes due westward across the arm of the bay. You can't easily miss it, for it runs along the edge of a heavy pine forest. The distance to the shore of the strait is nine miles, and there, on the lower side of a jutting- promontory of rocks, you will find a small boat concealed in a quiet cove. It is empty now, but before tomorrow night it will contain a stock of food, and a complete outfit of heavy clothes for each of you. The friend that has promised to arrange this for me can be depended upon. You must try to reach the mainland in this boat, and as the weather promises to be calm I think you have a good chance of success. After that fresh perils will begin, but if you ever reach Vladivostok you may find shelter and protection from some of the foreign vessels that lie in the harbor there. The long walk will be your greatest ordeal, but you may be stronger by tomorrow, and here is something which will be of help to you."

She took a small flask from under her cloak and handed it to Ivor, who immediately concealed it under the mattress of the bed.

"And now I must leave you," she resumed. "I will pray nightly to God for your escape. You deserve to be free, and I feel that I am doing right in helping you. Whatever were the sins that brought you here I hope you will repent of them and try to lead better lives in the future.

"Ah! how can I thank you?" exclaimed Ivor. "You are an angel of pity and kindness. If you only knew the truth how differently you would think of me! Wait one moment. I feel that must tell you. I am innocent of any crime; before God I swear it!"

Encouraged by the girl's hesitating attitude, and before she could utter a word of remonstrance, Ivor poured out in low but passionate tones the story of his wrongs.

To hear was to believe, and Sonia Komaroff did believe. Her eyes filled with tears, and the touch of hauteur — that barrier of caste which so chilled Ivor's heart — vanished from her manner. Instinctively she realized that the man before her —degraded convict though he was — belonged to her own class in life. Perhaps she had divined the truth long ago. Who can fathom the subtlety of a woman's discernment?

Ivor saw and understood her emotion. "You believe me!" he cried. "Thank God for that! You know that I am innocent. I feared that I should never find any one who would listen to my story. I thought God had forgotten me. But now I can believe in His mercy and goodness."

"Hush! God never forgets," whispered Sonia, "though His remembrance sometimes seems long delayed. I believe your story. I have heard of similar things before, and I blush for my own country when I think that such wickedness can be safely carried out under the sanction of the government. If I thought that my influence would avail at the present time I would bid you stay while I sought to convince my father. But I am terribly afraid that I should fail, and then your life would surely be taken. It is best that you should escape now, and I am certain that in the future your name will be cleared and full justice will be done."

"Yes, it is better so," stuttered Ivor. "My companion, too, is the victim of a plot. He tells me so, and I believe him."

"You will both be happy again," whispered Sonia. "Your part in this insurrection was ordered by God. It is the first step toward that ending which shall bring retribution to the wicked, and to you and your friend your rightful places in the world."

As she spoke she leaned closer to Ivor. Her tearful eyes and blushing cheeks showed in the dim glow of the candle. A passionate expression of the love — for love it was — that filled his heart surged to Ivor's lips, but with a fierce effort he choked it down. What right had he — a convicted felon — to speak of love? He remembered her words of hope, and a confident conviction that they would come true sprang up in his mind. For the moment he felt supremely happy.

"I shall never forget you," he whispered. "Under other circumstances I would dare to speak things to which my lips are now tightly sealed. By your aid I am going to seek freedom and justice, and I believe I shall find them. When I come into my heritage, and no stain rests on my name, may I come to you again and say that which I dare not say now?"

He paused, frightened at his own temerity. Then, emboldened by her silence, and scarce knowing what he did, he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Farewell now," she whispered in a faint voice, gently withdrawing her hand from his grasp. "God be with you, and keep you in his care through perils and dangers."

She turned, and crossed the room. Going swiftly and silently by Gogol she descended the stairs, and the echo of her soft tread died away.

CHAPTER IX

Ivor remained for a time as though in a trance, repeating over and over to himself Soma's last words, and trying to recall the lineaments of her sweet face. The hope — nay, the belief that she was not indifferent to him had come upon him so suddenly that it seemed more of a dream than a reality. He forgot everything for the moment but this new found happiness, and the spell was only broken when Gogol strode across the room.

Then came the reaction, and Ivor sank back among the pillows, dizzy from weakness and the shooting pains in his head. He felt better presently, and in composed tones told Gogol of the plan of escape which Sonia's gratitude had led her to devise. They discussed it in all its bearings until a late hour, and then fell asleep.

The morning ushered in a day of constant dread and apprehension, for there was no slight possibility that orders would be given to have the prisoners moved at once to stronger quarters. In order to obviate this they feigned to be far weaker than they really were. It was easy acting, since their wounds still gave them some pain. Gogol's broken arm was beginning to knit, but his head was badly bruised and so was Ivor's.

The deception may have been noticed by the baker, who brought in food and drink three times, and by the Cossack, Sasha, who was guard in the room all day; but if so they made no sign. The latter especially preserved a stolidly indifferent demeanor, and it was hard to believe that he had allied himself with Sonia to aid the escape of the prisoners.

The surgeon did not call, and the wearisome day came safely to a close. Supper was served at dusk and both men ate heartily with a view to what lay before them. An hour later, when the blackness and silence of night had settled down on the surrounding town, the Cossack took his departure, and the prisoners found themselves alone. The time had come to act, and the knowledge of what they had at stake made them cool and clear headed. Ivor helped Gogol into his heavy cloak, and then put his own on. He produced the flask given him by Sonia, and both took a sip. The contents proved to be vodka.

"I feel equal to a nine mile tramp now," said Ivor. "My pain and dizziness have disappeared."

"It's false strength though, my lad," muttered Gogol. "Still, if we can keep it up until we reach the boat, our legs will have a long rest. I can't do much rowing with one arm — that's what worries me."

"Never mind, I can row for two," replied Ivor. "I used to be a pretty good oarsman, and I don't believe my hand has lost its cunning. Come on, I am eager to make a trial of it."

They listened a moment to make sure that all was quiet, and then with cautious steps they descended the stairs, and passing through a narrow hall came to the rear door, which they opened softly. In the dim light they saw Sasha standing a few paces away with his back toward them.

The Cossack had certainly heard the door open, and it was equally certain that he intended to stick loyally to the trust reposed in him by Sonia Komaroff, for he offered no resistance when Ivor seized him from behind Gogol lent the assistance of his one arm, and Sasha was soon bound and gagged with strips cut from his heavy cloak. After laying him in a clump of shrubbery by the garden wall, and possessing themselves of his rifle and cartridges, the fugitives emerged through a broken gate on a side street. The thoroughfare was dark and deserted, and without observation they gained the forest on the outskirts of the town, whence it was an easy task to reach the road that led eastward across the head of the bay. Turning a last look on the twinkling lights of the town, where all was quiet, they strode rapidly forward, feeling fresher and more vigorous with every step.

The weather was such as is often met with in the southern part of Saghalien for days at a time. The sky was clear, and the temperature stood a little above zero. The snow was covered with a hard, unyielding crust of ice. There was every prospect that the weather would continue in this state, detracting much from the difficulties of the passage across the strait to the mainland. The fugitives felt their spirits rising as they left mile after mile behind them, stopping at brief intervals to moisten their throats with a few drops of vodka. Toward the end of the journey they grew weary and footsore, and their wounds gave them a good deal of pain. It was a glad moment when they saw, from a cleared spot on the brow of a wooded slope, the icy waters of the sea glistening in the distance under the starry sky. They had kept well to the path, for in plain view was the promontory of rocks described by Sonia, jutting out from the beach to a distance of several hundred feet. In the center it was elevated, and timbered with a belt of trees.

With eager eyes the fugitives gazed on the scene for a moment, and then they strode briskly down the slope. Hardly had they taken a dozen steps on the crunching snow crust when a long drawn howl sounded behind them. The sound was quickly repeated, and this time it seemed nearer.

Ivor stopped, and looked at his companion in alarm.

"Wolves!" he exclaimed, "What shall we do?"

"There are no wolves on Saghalien," cried Gogol. "Our escape is known, and the governor has put his bloodhounds on the trail. He has four of the brutes — big, savage fellows."

"Then we are lost," muttered Ivor, turning pale.

"No, we have a chance. Run your best, lad."

They ran at headlong speed down the slope spurred to greater effort by the loud baying of the eager hounds. Other sounds now mingled with the din — the rapid crunch of hoofs, and a shout uttered by a human voice. Mounted troops were coming in the rear of the hounds.

Brief but terrible was that mad flight down the hill and through the belt of pine timber, for the fugitives knew that to gain the boat meant safety and freedom, while capture would bring them to an ignominious end on the gallows. Pain and fatigue were forgotten, and as they emerged on the beach close to the angle formed by the jutting promontory they saw the outlines of the boat between two rocks in a quiet cove.

Another moment would have seen them launched safely out on the tide, but the vociferous baying of the bloodhounds was echoing from the timber and suddenly a great bronze colored brute burst out and rushed at the fugitives with a snarl of fury.

The other dogs were some distance behind, and Ivor was quick to grasp the opportunity that offered. "Get the boat ready, Gogol," he cried. "Quick! I'll be with you in a minute," and as his companion rushed by him he dropped on one knee, and trained the Cossack's rifle on the bloodhound. With a quick aim he pulled trigger, and as the report died away the brute was seen struggling in the agonies of death.

Ivor darted for the boat and sprang in just as four more bloodhounds broke from the timber and came yelping down the beach. But they were too late. Gogol had already given the boat a thrust with all the strength of his one serviceable arm, and gliding from between the rocks its prow cut through the waves that were rippling gently shoreward. Ivor sprang to the middle seat and put all his strength into the heavy, clumsy oars that were fitted into the rowlocks. There was a second pair, but as Gogol could not use them he dropped into the stern and shouted out quick directions to Ivor.

The combined influence of mind and muscle sent the little craft straight seaward, and as it swept beyond the tip of the promontory a dozen mounted Cossacks rode to the verge of the beach and mingled their excited cries with the baying of the baffled hounds. Then they spied the receding boat, and instantly their rifles were unloosed and leveled.

The gleam of the steel barrels caught Gogol's eye, and pulling Ivor backward from the seat he dropped down beside him. The sharp reports rang on the night air, and more than one bullet buried itself in the stern timbers of the boat. The firing continued intermittently, and when it finally ceased the fugitives were overjoyed to discover that tide or current, trending outward, had carried them a quarter of a mile from shore. The little group of Cossacks could be dimly seen, outlined in black against the snowy whiteness of the beach.

"That was a narrow escape, lad," muttered Gogol, "but I think we are safe now. Of course they will try to capture us, but it is a long distance around the arm of the bay, and the only vessels to be had are at Karsokov. If one is sent after us it won't be hard to keep out of its way."

"We may reach the mainland before that," suggested Ivor.

"Hardly, lad, for the distance is forty or fifty miles. But we will cover it in the least time possible. How do you feel?"

"A bit nervous, that's all. But I shall soon pull myself together."

"Better rest a little," replied Gogol. "Come, we'll have a look at this snug little craft and its contents, and see how we are fitted out. I've always had a fondness for boats since I was a boy, and paddled about on the Petersburg canals."

Ivor was quite willing to abandon the oars for a little while, and the proposed inspection was made. Amply satisfactory it proved, too. In the first place the boat itself could not have been better fitted for the cruise it was expected to make. True, it was heavy and difficult to row, but then its depth and stout timbers made it capable of resisting pretty rough water. It was an ordinary fisherman's craft, and the sail that belonged to it was lying furled up in the bottom. This counted for little, however, since scarcely a breath of air was stirring, and none was likely to stir.

Under the fore and stern seats were found the articles promised by Sonia Komaroff — and indeed much more than that. There were two complete outfits of coarse but serviceable clothes, a sack filled with bread, meat, and other supplies, a pair of heavy blankets, and a revolver and cartridges.

Tears welled into Ivor's eyes as he realized at what risk and toil the brave girl must have found means to carry out her plan. Some day, he fervently hoped, he might be able to show and prove his gratitude.

"We shall want for nothing," muttered Gogol, as he examined each article in turn. "Ah! that rigid old tyrant of a commandant little deserves such a daughter. May Heaven bless her, and keep her from harm! What a treasure she will make her husband, if ever she marries."

Ivor mentally agreed with his companion, but said nothing. He felt reluctant to lay bare the secret of his heart, even to such a tried friend as Gogol; yet at times he was strongly tempted to make a confidant of him.

When the boat had been thoroughly examined the new clothes were put on, and the old ones cast into the sea. A hasty meal of bread and meat put new life into the fugitives, and then they began the cruise in earnest.

It was now past midnight, as nearly as they could judge, and for hour after hour Ivor toiled at the clumsy oars, stopping for brief intervals of rest whenever the labor became too severe. The guidance of the craft depended upon Gogol, who mapped out his course by the aid of the stars.

This worked very well until shortly before dawn, when the sky became overcast with clouds and a raw, cutting breeze gave warning of a change in the weather. Things grew from bad to worse, and when morning broke the fugitives were forced to admit that they had lost their bearings. The somber, lead colored sky hid every trace of the sun, and a faint bluish haze impenetrable at a distance of four or five miles, hung over the sea.

"From the feel of this wind it must blow from the east," said Gogol. "At all events we can't do better than act on that belief. Suppose we put the sail up, lad? We can't lie becalmed here, for it will snow before evening."

Ivor assented readily. The sail was quickly rigged up, and the mast was fitted into its socket. The ropes and tackle were all complete, and it was a happy moment for the voyagers when they saw the wind belly the triangular canvas, and felt the boat quiver with life and motion. Ivor proved himself an adept in the art of managing the sail, and during the morning and part of the afternoon steady progress was made.

The contrast between pulling at the heavy oars and sitting quietly at ease was thoroughly appreciated, and both men felt stronger than at any time since leaving their sick room.

Their inaction left them at the mercy of the cold, however, and they were finally compelled to make use of the blankets. A constant watch was kept for any vessel that might have been sent after the fugitives, but if one was cruising about the vicinity the fog made its presence unknown. One constant source of apprehension existed. The sea was dotted with ice cakes which had drifted from far northern waters, and a collision with some of the largest of these would probably prove disastrous. However, by constant vigilance the fugitives hoped to avert the danger.

So the day wore on, and the shades of night began to blend with the mist. The wind blew more strongly, bearing in its teeth a thin shower of show. Still there was no sign of land, and the castaways felt the chill of despair driving hope from their hearts. They pretended to be as sanguine as ever, but their words were a hollow mockery. They huddled close together, seeking protection from the bitter cold and the fast thickening fall of snow.

The minutes mounted into hours, and still the little boat held its course. Showers of icy spray drenched the occupants, and added to their misery. The night was intensely dark. Nothing could be seen save here and there an occasional whitish patch — a drifting cake of ice.

"We are running too great a risk," said Gogol finally. "Let us take the sail down and do what we can with oars. I will try to help you with one hand. The exercise will keep our blood stirring; otherwise we may be frozen stiff before morning."

"I'm willing," assented Ivor. "It won't make much difference, though," he added moodily. "The chances are dead against our reaching land. As likely as not we are cruising right down the center of the strait."

"I won't deny it, lad," muttered Gogol, "but we'll hope for the best. Keep your spirits up."

He rose unsteadily to his feet, intending to lower the sail and had barely taken hold of the mast pole when there was a terrific shock, accompanied by the grinding sound of splintered ice and shattered timbers.

Gogol was thrown on his face, and when he rose he felt the icy water surging about his ankles, and saw that the boat had struck a great floe, and then swung lengthwise alongside of it.

"We are sinking," he cried to Ivor, who had been flung forcibly against his companion. "Jump! Jump for your life!"

They sprang to the side of the boat, and by a desperate leap cleared the gap and landed safely on the ice floe. They were none too soon, for the little craft settled deeper in the water as the flood rushed in. Then, with a hollow gurgle, it vanished, taking everything with it — weapons, food and blankets.

The fugitives stood in silent horror, scanning the icy prison that was now their only refuge. The floe was circular in shape, with jagged irregular edges. Its diameter was probably twenty feet. It lurched heavily among the waves, and occasionally a sharp crack could be heard as one of the outer fragments parted. It was inevitable that it would break up altogether before long. Then would come — the end. And even should it hold together, death by cold or starvation would be the certain fate of the castaways.

They realized the situation and discussed it with growing despair. Not a ray of. hope existed. After escaping far more critical perils, they must die at a time when safety had seemed almost within their grasp. Gogol seemed to face his doom with a dull resignation, but not so with Ivor. It was more than he could bear to think that the miscreants who had plotted his ruin would enjoy unpunished the fruits of their crime, and when the sweet face of Sonia Komaroff rose before his eyes out of the darkness, his anguish became acute. He sat down on a fragment of ice, and buried his face in his hands. Thus he remained for an hour, face to face with the horrors of death, while Gogol sat mutely by his side. The wind shrieked and whistled, the snow fell and drifted in little heaps, and on through the darkness crept the ice floe with its human burden, swirling and pitching amid the crested billows.

At last Ivor lifted his head and looked hopelessly at his companion. "Gogol," he said in husky tones, "your frame is stronger than mine, and you may survive to reach the shore or be picked up by some passing vessel. If God so wills it. I want you to promise me two things. First that you will write to Sonia Komaroff arid tell her how I died, and that her name was last on my lips. Tell her that I loved her — that I hoped some day to tell her so. And now one more thing — an act of just retribution this time; I have an uncle in St. Petersburg, and no more treacherous, black hearted fiend than Maximy Petrov ever walked the earth —"

A harsh, gasping cry broke from Gogol's lips, and he staggered to his feet trembling in every limb. "Maximy Petrov!" he cried hoarsely. "You know that villain? He is your uncle? Who are you, lad? Speak! for God's sake speak!"

He stood swaying from side to side, and devouring Ivor's face with a hungry look.

CHAPTER X

Ivor, in turn, was no less amazed by Gogol's agitation. He believed for a moment that suffering and peril had suddenly bereft his companion of his senses. Then it occurred to him that something far deeper lay beneath the mystery.

"Speak! Who are you?" repeated Gogol, more passionately than before. "I ought to know, and yet — no, it is impossible."

"My name is Petrov," stammered Ivor. "My father was Alexis Petrov, the brother of Maximy. My mother's name was Halliday —"

The words were literally smothered on Ivor's lips as Gogol, forgetting his injured arm, threw himself upon him in a transport of joy, and hugged him with a bear-like embrace.

"You are Ivor Alexovitch, the son of my old master," he cried hoarsely. "Thank God for this meeting! I was your father's faithful servant, and your mother's too. What a noble woman she was, and how patiently she suffered injustice and wrong!"

Ivor began to comprehend the truth as he extricated himself from Gogol's embrace.

"You are not Nicholas, surely?" he asked.

"Yes, I am Nicholas — Nicholas Gogol," replied the old man, while the tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks. "You have heard your mother speak of me, then?"

"Often. She spoke of you last just before she died."

"Alas! Is Madame Petrov dead?" exclaimed Gogol, giving way to a burst of grief, "And she never knew that the truth had been found out — never knew that her husband had repented of his injustice!"

"Yes, she knew," said Ivor softly. "She received a letter from my father shortly before his death."

Gogol was silent for a moment, struggling hard to conquer his emotions. Then he sat down on the ice beside Ivor, and threw one arm about him.

"Surely no stranger thing than this ever happened," he said huskily. "For months we have lived together, sharing misery and toil; and yet each ignorant of the other's identity. The ways of Providence are indeed hard to understand. But tell me now this story of treachery. I almost know the truth already. It was your heartless uncle who sent you to Saghalien?"

"Yes, it was Maximy Petrov," replied Ivor. "He and another villain. I will tell you all."

Forgetful of the imminent perils that surrounded them they sat side by side, Gogol listening with eager attention to every word that fell from Ivor's lips, as he went back to the past and told the sad story of treachery and suffering. The wind howled, and the waves lashed the ice furiously, as though they would drown the voice of the speaker.

Gogol could hardly master his indignation sufficiently to listen to the end. Then, when he was free to speak, the pent up passion burst forth. He plunged at once into his own story, trying to speak coherently, but pouring out his words at spasmodic intervals.

"Ah! The base treachery of those lying, forging scoundrels! What would I not give for one short year of life? As sure as there is a God above both would go to the mines of Siberia for life. Listen, lad; I know all — everything. I have proofs of their guilt. I know where the genuine will is."

Ivor gave an involuntary start.

"There was one then?" he gasped.

"Yes; to be sure; But I must try to speak plainly. I feel that I am becoming confused. Let me begin at the beginning. That is the first step. You know already that I was a trusted servant in Alexis Petrov's house for seventeen years. I was a mere lad when I entered his employ. Your mother was the kindest mistress a man could have. I worshiped the ground she trod upon. As for you, many a time you were sent out in my care. What happened in those days you already know. I was sure that your mother was innocent, and I even had my suspicions as to the enemy who was trying to ruin her by lying letters. Of course I dared not whisper this to my master. It might have cost me my life. Well, your mother fled with you, unable to endure any more, and the years rolled by until the time of your father's last illness. Then, in some way, he discovered the truth, and told me of it. The bitterest enemy your mother had was the man who professed the greatest friendship for her — Maximy Petrov."

"My uncle!" exclaimed Ivor. "Why did I not suspect him before? Ah! what crimes he will have to answer for!"

"Yes, many indeed," muttered Gogol, grinding his teeth. "This was his revenge for being rejected by your mother. Well, as I have said, my master discovered his brother's perfidy, but for some reason he preferred to keep him in ignorance of it. He had a different plan in view, but of this he told me nothing. My first knowledge of it comes from that letter which you tell me your mother received. I did not know my master had written it. The day after Alexis Petrov died his brother and Feodor Gunsberg were closeted together. I happened to pass through the room when they had left it for a moment. The table was strewn with writing materials, and on the floor lay a folded paper which I picked up. I glanced at it, and saw that it was a will. My master's name was signed to it. I don't know what prompted me to act as I did, but I took the document and put it behind a loose stone of the big open fireplace in the adjoining room. On the day of my master's burial, when the funeral was over, Feodor Gunsberg read what was supposed to be the genuine will. It gave all the property to Maximy Petrov except a few legacies to the servants. I felt sure this was a forgery, for I knew Alexis Petrov would not have left his property to his brother after the discovery he had made. I concluded that the will I had hidden was the real one, but I never had a chance to examine it. I was suspected of knowing too much, for your uncle and his confederate discovered that I had been in the room where they concocted the plot. They had me arrested and sent to Saghalien by almost the same means that were adopted in your case. I was utterly powerless and never succeeded in finding any one who would listen to my story. What little uncertainty there was about the matter you have now cleared up. The letter that your mother received shows plainly that my master made a will in her favor and yours. The conspirators no doubt made use of it in forging a new one to suit their ends, and intended to destroy the original. But I foiled them by taking possession of it, and it is probably still concealed in the fireplace."

"But the loss of the will did not deter them from going on with their plans," said Ivor, "though they must have been constantly in fear of detection, even when they had put you out of the way."

"No, they are desperate men. For such a fortune which they no doubt divided — they should have stopped at nothing. They removed me from their path, and then you, and they are quite ready to commit more crimes if danger threatens them. It was a double gratification for Maximy Petrov to put you out of the way, for he hates you as he hated your mother. It is hard that those miscreants should live to enjoy their ill gotten gains, while we, the victims, must die unavenged;"

Ivor laughed — a harsh, bitter laugh. "Hard ! Yes, it is more than hard," he muttered in a passionate voice. "But such things predominate in this world. Will there be justice and mercy in the next, I wonder? However, we shall know ere long. What fools we are to talk of our wrongs while we stand on the edge of eternity! It can give us no consolation, but only adds to our torture."

The wretched man stared for an instant into the blackness that lay on all sides. Then, with a moan of agony, he threw himself amid the drifted snow that covered the rough floe, and covered his face with his arms.

Gogol looked on pityingly. He would have given much to cheer his companion, but he well knew his impotency to utter one sincere word of comfort. It was better to face the truth — and the truth was very bitter and hopeless.

The minutes passed on, and the two castaways lay mute and motionless on the ice, while the falling snow gathered in little heaps on their stiffened clothing. The wind shrieked overhead, and the floe moved forward with a succession of lunges as it slipped from abyss to abyss among the waves. The edges were crumbling and breaking off, and already its diameter was lessened by three or four feet. A collision with another cake might precipitate a calamity at any moment, and then the end would come quickly.

At times a shiver ran through Ivor's frame, and a stifled sob escaped his lips. Agony, more intense than Gogol suspected, was gnawing at his heart. Great as had been his misery a little while before, he felt that the sting and bitterness of death had now increased tenfold. Better had he never known Gogol's identity, he told himself. Better had he died without this knowledge which mocked him with a vain vision of victory over his enemies by the aid of his father's old servant. Bitter indeed were his reflections as he stared into the future which had dawned upon him with Gogol's words. Ah! if the bright dream would only come true! Working hand in hand with his companion he would extricate himself from the devilish snares of the conspirators, he would produce the genuine will and overwhelm them with a weight of punishment and retribution, he would assume his lost place in the world, wealthy and honored, and then — how the thought thrilled him! — he would go back to bleak Saghalien and claim Sonia Komaroff for his bride.

But it was only a dream, and the very hopelessness of it wrung a cry of agony from his lips as he raised his head to stare into the blackness of the wintry night, and felt the ice quiver amid the angry waves. Then he seemed to lose consciousness, and he knew nothing more until a sharp cry broke upon his stupor, and a strong arm shook him mercilessly to and fro. He was pulled upright, and as he tried to stand on his numbed limbs, swaying backward and forward, a light broke upon his clouded senses, and he became more dizzy than ever with joy. Gogol was supporting him with one hand while with the other he pointed to a lofty object all aglitter with lights, that was advancing toward them through the icy waves

"A ship! A ship!" he cried hoarsely. "Thank God! We shall be saved."

Ivor echoed the words in his heart, but his voice failed him when he tried to speak. The vessel came closer, resolving itself into the long black hull of a Russian corvette with tall funnels rising, like specters, in air. Lanterns flashed from the deck, and showed dark figures moving to and fro.

The castaways shouted as only despairing men can, and the wind swept their voices straight to the vessel. A brief confusion was observable on deck, and then an electric search light was turned in a semicircle from the bow until its white rays shone directly upon the heaving cake of ice. Loud voices of command were heard, the ringing of bells, and the rattle and clank of reversed machinery. An instant later the corvette — which had been moving slowly in the first place — lay motionless on the water, scarce thirty yards from the castaways.

"We shall soon be picked up," said Gogol. "I am afraid it is a man of war, though, for I can see soldiers on the deck. I hoped it might be one of the trading vessels that ply along the coast. However, our lives are safe for the present."

"But they will end on the gallows after all," said Ivor bitterly. "I have stopped hoping. Everything is against us."

"Don't say that, lad. We have a chance yet. This vessel may not have come from Saghalien, and in that event we have good reason to hope for the best. Perhaps they will give us a chance to tell our story, and if they do we will convince them, never fear."

By this time a yawl had been lowered, and was making good headway against the waves and wind. It soon hove alongside the ice floe and the crew — who wore the Russian naval uniform — helped the fugitives on board. The officer in command seemed to regard it as an every day occurrence, for he preserved a stolid demeanor and asked no questions.

The crew bent lustily to the oars and five minutes later Gogol and Ivor were standing on the deck of the corvette. An officer of high rank came forward to meet them, scattering the inquisitive marines who were standing about. He was a tall, bearded man of commanding aspect, and in one hand he held a paper. He glanced at this and then fixed his keen black eyes on the fugitives.

"Your names are Nicholas Gogol and Ivor Petrov, and you escaped from Karsokov twenty four hours ago," he said sternly. "At noon today I was hailed by a vessel that had come in search of you, and I received instructions to be on the lookout. Now that I have picked you up I shall be compelled to take you on to Vladivostok, We are eighty miles southwest of Saghalien, and I cannot spare the time to go back. You will doubtless be returned immediately, and you may rest assured that your foolish escape will not save you from the gallows.|

"Here, take these convicts below, and keep them in close confinement,'' he added to his men. "Give them dry clothes, and food and drink, but don't allow them to talk. See that my instructions are rigidly obeyed."

The words sounded to Ivor and Gogol like a death knell, but they were too weak from hunger and exposure to offer any resistance, or to plead for a hearing. It was just as well that it was so, for any such attempt would only have made their lot worse. They were hurriedly taken below deck, and locked up. They were examined by the ship's surgeon, and provided with dry clothes and a palatable meal. When their hunger was satisfied they found temporary oblivion from their troubles in sleep.

On the following morning they were refreshed in body if not in spirit. Gogol's broken arm continued to mend, and the wounds on Ivor's head gave him no further pain or inconvenience. They remained for five days in a state of the greatest gloom and dejection. Save the guard who brought them their meals they saw no one, nor were they allowed stir out of their place of confinement.

The corvette pursued a steady course day and night, and on the fourth evening after it had picked up the fugitives it dropped anchor in the harbor of Vladivostok. On the following morning the prisoners were visited by the commanding officer, who briefly informed them that a man of war would start for Saghalien one week later, and that they were to spend the interim in the city prison.

Ivor made a desperate attempt to pour out his story of wrongs to the officer, but it resulted in a severe rebuff and some pretty rough treatment from the guards.

An hour later the prisoners were transferred from the vessel to a steam yawl, which bore them rapidly across the harbor. With emotions such as no pen can describe, they gazed upon the roofs and spires of the town stretching along the sun lit beach, and back to the snow clad hills that line the Siberian coast. On the wharf a file of Cossacks were waiting. They immediately surrounded the prisoners, and led them briskly up a street that ran at right angles to the sea. An officer marched well in front, rudely scattering the people who were inclined to stop and watch the dreary procession.

Gogol kept his eyes on the ground, but Ivor stared about with the air of one who knows that he is looking his last on a scene that he loves well. The houses, the shops, the pedestrians, the vehicles — all added to the horror of that mental picture which was ever present with him. In imagination he saw the dreary prison at Karsokov, the gibbet, the dangling ropes, the stern executioners — and then his brain grew dizzy as the pitying face of Sonia Komaroff looked out from the awe stricken throng of spectators.

He was recalled to his present misery by a blow and a harsh word from one of the soldiers, against whom he had unwittingly stumbled. At that moment the column wheeled into another street, and the great dome of the Admiralty and the carved facade of the Naval Club came in view. On the steps of the latter building stood a tall, distinguished looking man. He wore a spick and span uniform and a dangling sword, and his white teeth peeped from beneath his heavy black beard and mustache as he puffed with evident enjoyment at a big cigar.

Ivor glanced up while passing, and the moment his eyes rested on the stranger he staggered with the shock of a great surprise. He saw, as vividly as on the day it occurred, a thrilling scene in his past life — the snowy outline of the Nevski Prospekt, the squadron of Lancers trotting to the strains of their regimental band, and the maddened horses dragging a careening sleigh toward the crowded pavement.

The vision faded as the soldiers roughly forced him on, but spurred by a desperate resolve he tore from them and staggered to the foot of the steps.

"Captain Saltstein, help me," he cried in ringing tones. "I am an innocent man. I am the victim of a terrible conspiracy — give me five minutes' interview — you remember me, surely? I caught the horses — a year ago — in St. Petersburg —"

The Cossacks dragged him away, clapping their hands upon his mouth. The officer, who seemed greatly astounded at what had occurred, ordered them to desist, and came down to the level of the pavement.

"Who are you? What does this mean?" he demanded of Ivor in rather disgusted tones. "Ah! I remember now. It was you who caught Reschagin's horses, and saved us from an ugly accident. Well, that doesn't entitle you to appeal to me under these circumstances. I can do nothing for you."

Having delivered himself of this in the iciest of tones he turned to ascend the steps.

"Stop! hear me a moment, for God's sake," cried Ivor. "I ask a brief interview — nothing more. You cannot but believe what I have to tell you."

He raised his voice as Captain Saltstein persisted in making a dignified retreat, and shouted desperately: "I am the nephew of Maximy Petrov, whom perhaps you know. My uncle and Feodor Gunsberg robbed me of my father's estate by a forged will, and then put me out of the way by charging me with Nihilism. Here is a witness to what I say — my father's old servant, Nicholas Gogol, who was treated in the same way."

The Cossacks were about to silence Ivor effectually this time, when Captain Saltstein checked them by a wave of the hand. He came down the steps with a strange look of interest and agitation on his face, and conferred for a moment with the officer in charge of the prisoners. Then he walked back to Ivor.

"Are you the son of Alexis Petrov?" he asked.

"Yes. Did you know my father?"

"I knew both your parents. In an hour I will visit you at the prison."

Ivor's head swam for an instant. When he recovered himself Captain Saltstein had vanished behind the portals of the Naval Club.

The little procession moved on, but for Gogol and Ivor the world wore a changed look. The sunlight was not brighter or more radiant than their own hearts, and when they found themselves, a little later, between four gloomy stone walls, they were happier than any Russian noble in his ancestral palace.

Their hopes proved not to be ill founded, and what followed may be briefly told. Captain Saltstein came to the prison, heard Ivor's story, and was much impressed that he was forced to accept its truth, though it implicated two personal friends of his own in a monstrous crime. A week passed, during which he carried on an extensive correspondence by telegraph with the authorities — mainly with Ilarion Reschagin, Minister of the Interior. The result was that the two convicts were ordered back to Russia, and it was furthermore arranged that Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg should know nothing of what had taken place, until the witnesses of their crime were on the spot.

As Captain Saltstein had just finished an extensive tour of Siberian inspection the prisoners were assigned to his charge, and so it came about that early in March Gogol and Ivor found themselves posting westward as fast as horses could carry them, while the dread nightmare of the past was left farther and farther behind.

On a certain June evening, more than a year after the commission of the crime that had consigned his innocent nephew to the mines of Saghalien, Maximy Petrov sat in his sumptuously furnished library. Everything about him was white and ghost-like, for the chairs, the pictures, the statuary, and even the carpets were muffled in their summer covering. It was the season of the year when aristocratic Petersburg was afield — yachting on the Gulf of Finland, lolling in northern country houses, or following the beaten tracks of Continental travel — and Maximy Petrov felt lonely and oppressed amid the solitary grandeur of his palace. Even the clubs were deserted,

However, it was a consolation to think that he would soon be in gay Paris — the Mecca of all well to do Russians. He had reached the city that morning from one of his northern estates, and found business matters needing attention that would detain him until the following day.

The table at which he sat was littered with open letters relating mainly to the management of his property, and as he answered one after another, and sealed and stamped the envelopes by the flame of a wax candle, a satisfied smile gathered about his lips. In his haughty, blasé manner there was nothing to indicate the quality of his moral nature; nor did he dream, ever so remotely, that the hand of retribution was already outstretched to seize him.

As the clock in the outer hall struck nine, Vladimir, his servant, entered with a letter.

"There is no answer," he said.

"You are to read it at once. It is very important."

"Who brought it?"

"A stranger," was the reply. "He went away immediately."

Maximy Petrov glanced at the envelope, and tore it carelessly open. He unfolded the contents and read as follows:

I have just heard that you are in town. Leave Russia by the first train, or you are lost. Your nephew and Nicholas Gogol have arrived in Petersburg. Ilarion Reschagin is pushing the affair, and already warrants have been issued for your arrest and mine. The news comes through one of my police agents, and cannot be doubted. I am about to leave the city by water, and will join you in Paris. Heed this warning.

FEODOR GUNSBERG.

The paper fluttered to the floor, and Maximy Petrov rose, staggered a few steps, and dropped into the depths of a soft couch. His face was deathly pale, his eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets, his breath came in quick gasps, and every muscle quivered with mortal fear. Everything was lost — home, wealth, friends, reputation. The concentrated agony of that brief moment of realization must have been terrible beyond conception.

Vladimir was startled to see his proud and imperious master collapse into such a pitiable wreck. "You are ill," he cried. "I will summon a physician."

"No, no, stay here," gasped Maximy Petrov hoarsely. With an effort he rose. "I am better now," he said. "It was the sudden shock that upset me. I have had bad news, and must take the first train to Berlin. It leaves at ten o'clock. Summon a cab immediately, Vladimir. Have it wait on the rear street at the end of the garden. Then come back at once."

As Vladimir hastily left the room Maximy seated himself at the table, and drawing a check book from the drawer began to write furiously. Then he dashed a few lines on a sheet of note paper, and placed this and the detached check in an envelope.

"It is fortunate that I have my passport," he muttered. "I must escape. I must. Anything is preferable to Siberia. Some day I will have my revenge —"

He checked himself as Vladimir entered. "Is the cab ready?" he demanded eagerly.

"It is awaiting at the end of the garden," replied the servant.

"Good! Now here are your instructions. Heed them well. Take this letter to the cashier of the Imperial Bank, who lives on the second floor of the building. It is a late hour, but he will give you a draft on Paris for my balance — forty thousand rubles. You won't have time to make the ten o'clock train, but take the next one and join me at the Hotel Continental, Paris. Here is your passport, and money for your ticket and traveling expenses."

" But the trunks — your luggage?" asked the servant in no little bewilderment.

"I will attend to that: Go at once, and don't return to the house. From the bank take a cab straight to the railway station."

These orders were imperative, and Vladimir departed without further questioning. He was attached to his master, and could be depended upon in such an emergency.

Maximy Petrov was now alone. He glanced hurriedly about the room. There was no time to seek valuables. At any moment the dread messengers might arrive. Fortunately his pocket book was well filled. He snatched a few valuable papers and seized a light overcoat as he passed through the hall. In a moment he reached the garden, and strode down the paved marble walk between a double row of fragrant cedars. He turned for a last look at the stately palace which his feet would never tread again, and then, with a bitter curse on his lips, he tore open the bolts of the great iron gate and passed into the street.. No pedestrians were visible. The cab was drawn up by the curb, and he stepped in and banged the door shut. "The Berlin terminus," he shouted to the driver. "Double fare if you make the ten o'clock express."

The Russian Jehu lashed his horses, arid away went the vehicle with a roar and a rumble.

The ride seemed interminably long to the tortured passenger as he was borne through devious, gas lit streets. But here was the end. He paid the driver and staggered into the great building. Now he was before the little grated window, and as he laid down his passport, and a two hundred ruble note, he saw the long line of coaches in the terminus beyond.

"This passport has been stopped."

The words sent a thrill of agony to Maximy Petrov's brain.

"Stopped?" he gasped. "What do you mean? Give me my ticket, and let me pass."

Then he saw two gendarmes issue from the ticket seller's room, and for a second his heart stood still. He realized the situation, and turning, he made a terrific dash for the exit to the street.

Too late! He was suddenly confronted by a Cossack officer, who barred the way with a drawn sword. Men in the blue uniform of the police were pushing forward, and behind them appeared the faces of Ivor Petrov and Nicholas Gogol.

"A warrant for your arrest," cried the Cossack officer, brandishing a document. "Surrender peaceably."

With an oath Maximy sprang to one side, and attempted to draw a revolver from his pocket. But the gendarmes closed on him from behind, and he was speedily overpowered and manacled. They dragged him, pallid and trembling, through the great crowd of spectators to the outer street. Here a closed carriage was waiting, and one hour later the massive doors of the Fortress closed behind Maximy Petrov. The hand of retribution had descended heavily.

On the morrow St. Petersburg was ablaze with excitement. Maximy Petrov's crime had been too great for even the powerful press censorship to conceal, and the journals were liberal in their treatment of the subject. They related in detail how the leading conspirator had been caught at the Berlin terminus; how his servant, Vladimir, had been arrested while leaving the Imperial Bank with a foreign draft for forty thousand rubles in his possession, and still further did they electrify society by telling how the well known and highly honored Feodor Gunsberg had committed suicide when the officers of the law overtook his yacht off the Cronstadt lighthouse. Nor did they omit a full history of the crime from its beginning, and a brief account of the various sufferings and adventures undergone by the two convicts, Ivor Petrov and Nicholas Gogol.

In justice to the Russian government it must be said that it did all in its power to atone for the great wrong done the two innocent men. This was mainly due, however, to the efforts of Captain Saltstein and Ilarion Reschagin. Ivor and Gogol were completely vindicated, and when the former produced the genuine will from its hiding place in the Petrov palace, the authorities placed him in possession of the vast estate — which was his according to the terms of the will — with as little formality as possible. Gogol refused a large sum of money which Ivor was anxious to bestow upon him, but he was easily induced to accept a permanent position in the household, more as a trusted friend and adviser than a servant.

Maximy Petrov was convicted and sentenced to Siberia for life. He sternly refused to see his nephew — though Ivor pleaded for a last interview and with a bitter and hardened heart he went away to his living death. More merciful by far was the fate of Feodor Gunsberg.

Social duties, and affairs connected with the management of his estate, chained Ivor to St. Petersburg until September. Then, when he was able at last to start on that long eastward journey which was still uppermost in his heart, Captain Komaroff and his daughter arrived in the capital. In consideration of his gallant conduct during the Saghalien insurrection, the commandant had been transferred to a more lucrative post at home.

Ivor had already written to Sonia, the letter having reached her shortly before her departure from Karsokov — and when the first meeting took place between them the old, old story was told again. Ivor and Captain Komaroff healed their differences and cleared all doubtful points, though the latter declared that his daughter was liable to arrest and punishment for aiding two condemned convicts to escape.

THE END