The Princeton union. [volume], June 01, 1905, Page 6, Image 6

About The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976

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I
I
Two men holding a hundred in check!
as soon as they could penetrate the
densely packed mob they would charge
up the stairs even in face of a heavy
fire. The reek of vodka was borne up
in the heated atmosphere, mingled
with the nauseating odor of filthy
clothing.
"Go," said Steinmetz, "and put on
your doctor's clothes. I can keep them
back for a few minutes."
Theie was no time to be lost. Paul
slipped away, leaving Steinmetz alone
at the summit of the state stairway,
standing grimly, revolver in hand.
In the drawing room Paul found
Maggie alone.
"Where Etta?" he asked.
"She left the room some time ago."
"But I told her to stay," said Paul.
To this Maggie made no answer. She
was looking at him with an anxious
scrutiny.
"Did they shoot at you?" she asked.
"Yes, but not straight," he answered,
with a little laugh, as he hurried on.
In a few moments he was back In
the drawing room, a different man, in
the rough, stained clothes of the Mos
jcow doctor. The din on the stairs was
llouder. Steinmetz was almost in the
wodrway. He was shooting economical
ly, picking his men.
With an effort Paul dragged one or
two heavy pieces of furniture across
the room in the form of a rough bar
ricade. He pointed to the hearth rug
where Maggie was to stand.
"Ready!" he shouted to Steinmetz.
"Come!"
The German ran in, and Paul closed
the barricade.
The rabble poured in at the open
door, screaming and shouting. Blood
stained, ragged, wild with the mad
ness of murder, they crowded to the
barricade. There they stopped, gazing
stupidly at Paul.
"The Moscow doctor! The Moscow
doctor!" passed from lip to lip. It was
the women who shouted it the loudest
Like the wind through a forest, it
iK-fe^ &rJ'f
&h&&siff[
SOWER S
By
Honry Seton Merriman
Copyrisht. 1895. by HARPER fc. BROTHERS
"took out!" said Paul. "I believe
Ihey are going to make a rush!"
All the while the foremost men were
edging toward the stairs, while the
densely packed throng at the back
.were struggling among themselves. In
the passages behind some were yelling
and screaming with a wild intonation
which Steinmetz recognized. He had
been through the commune.
"Those fellows at the back have
been killing some one," he said. "I
can tell by their voices. They are
drunk with the sight of blood."
Some new orator gained the ears of
the rabble at this moment, and the ill
kempt heads swayed from side to side.
"It is useless," he cried, "telling him
what you want! He will not give it
you! Go and take it! Go and take it,
little fathers! That is the only way!"
Steinmetz raised his hand and peer
ed down into the crowd, looking for
the man of eloquence, and the voice
was hushed.
At this moment, however, the yelling
increased, and through the doorway
leading to the servants' quarters came
a stream of men, blood stained, ragged,
torn. They were waving arms and im
plements above their heads.
"Down with the aristocrats! Kill
them! Kill them!" they were shriek
ing.
A little volley of firearms further ex
cited them. But vodka is not a good
thing to shoot upon, and Paul stood
untouched, waiting, as he had said, un
til they were tired of shouting.
"Now," yelled Steinmetz to him in
English, "we must go! We can make
a stand at the head of the stairs, then
the doorway, then" He shrugged his
shoulders. "Thenthe end," he added
as they moved up the stairs step by
step backward. "My very good friend,"
lie went on, "at the door we must be
gin to shoot them down. It is our
only chance It is. moreover, our duty
toward the ladies."
"There is one alternative," answered
Paul.
"The Moscow doctor?"
"Yes." "They may turn," said Paul. "They
are just in that humor
The newcomers were the most dan
gerous. They were forcing their way
to the front. There was no doubt that
swepr ora of "the roonT and down the
stairs. Those crowding up pushed on
and uttered the words as they came.
The room was packed with them.
"Yes!" shouted Steinmetz at the top
of his great voice. "And the prince!"
He knew the note to strike and struck
with a sure hand. The barricade was
torn aside, and the people swept for
ward, falling on- their knees, groveling
at Paul's feet, kissing the hem of his
garment, seizing his strong hands in
theirs.
It was a mighty harvest. That which
is sown in the people's hearts bears a
thousandfold at last.
"Get them out of the place! Open
the big doors!" said Paul to Steinmetz.
He stood cold and grave among them.
Some of them were already sneaking
toward the doorthe ringleaders, the
talkers from the towns, mindful of
their own necks in this change of feel
ing.
Steinmetz hustled them out, bidding
them take their dead with them. Some
of the servants reappeared, peeping,
white faced, behind curtains. When
the last villager had crossed the thresh
old these ran forward to close and bar
the great doors.
"No," said Paul from the head of the
stairs "leave them open."
Steinmetz in the drawing room look
ed at Paul with his resigned, semihu
morous shrug of the shoulders.
"Touch and go, mein lieber!" he said.
"Yes an end of Russia for us," an
swered the prince.
He moved toward the door leading
through to the old castle.
"I am gojng to look for Etta," he
said.
"And I," said Steinmetz, going to the
other entrance, "am going to see who
opened the side door."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
ILL you come with me?"
said Paul to Maggie. "I
will send the servants to
put this room to rights." W
Maggie followed him out of the room,
and together they went through the
passages, calling Etta and looking for
her. There was an air of gloom and
chilliness in the rooms of the old cas
tle. The outline of the great stones,
dimly discernible through the wall pa
per, was singularly suggestive of a for
tress thinly disguised.
"I suppose," said Paul, "that Etta
lost her nerve."
"Yes," answered Maggie doubtfully.
"I think it was that."
Paul went on. He carried a lamp in
one steady hand.
"We shall probably find her in one of
these rooms," he said. "It is so easy
to lose oneself among the passages and
staircases."
They passed on through the great
smoking room, with its hunting tro
phies. The lynx, with its face of
Claude de Chauxville, grinned at them
darkly from its pedestal.
Halfway down the stairs leading to
the side door they met Steinmetz com
ing hastily up. His face was white and
drawn with horror.
"You must not go down here," he
said in a husky voice, barring the pas
sage with his arm.
"Why not?"
"Go up again," said Steinmetz
breathlessly. "You must not go down
here."
Paul laid his hand on the broad arm
stietched across the stairway.- For a
moment it almost appeared to be a
physical struggle then Steinmetz
stepped aside.
"I beg of you," he said, "not to go
down
And Paul went on, followed by Stein
metz and behind them Maggie. At the
foot of the stairs a broader passage
led to the side door, and from this oth
er passages opened into the servants'
quarters and communicated through
the kitchens with the modern building.
It was evident that the door leading
to the grassy slope at the back of the
castle was open, for a cold wind blew
up the stairs and made the lamps
flicker.
At the end of the passage Paul
stopped.
Steinmetz was a little behind him,
holding Maggie back.
The two lamps lighted up the passage
and showed the white form of the
Princess Etta lying huddled up against
the wall. The face was hidden, but
there was no mistaking the beautiful
dress and hair. It could only be Etta.
Paul stooped down and looked at her,
but he did not touch her. He went a
few paces forward and closed the door.
Beyond Etta a black form lay across
the passage, all trodden underfoot and
disheveled. Paul held the lamp down,
and through the mud and blood Claude
de Chauxville's clear cut features were
outlined.
Death is always unmistakable,
though it be shown by nothing more
than a heap of muddy clothes.
Claude de Chauxville was lying
across the passage. He had been trod
den underfoot by the stream of mad
dened peasants who had entered by
this door which had been opened for
them, whom Steinmetz had checked at
the foot of the stairs by shooting their
ringleader.
|fTHE PRINCETON UNION: THURSDAY, JUNE 1, 1005.
De Ciauxvllle's scalp was torn away
by a blow, probably given with a
spade or some blunt instrument His
hand, all muddy and bloodstained, still
held a revolver. The other hand was
stretched out toward Etta, who lay
across his feet, crouching against the
wall. Death had found and left her in
an attitude of fear, shielding hei bow
ed head from a blow with her up
raised hands. Her loosened hair fell
in a long wave of gold down to the
bloodstained hand outstretched toward
her. She was kneeling in De Chaux
ville's blood, which stained the stone
floor of the passage.
Paul leaned forward and laid his
fingers on the bare arm just below a
bracelet which gleamed in the lamp
light. She was quite dead. He held
a lamp close to her. There was no
mark or scratch upon her arm or shoul
der. The blow which had torn her
hair down had killed her without any
disfigurement. The silken skirt of her
dress, which lay across the passage,
was trampled and stained by the tread
of a hundred feet
Then Paul went to Claude de Chaux
ville. He stooped down and slipped
his skilled fingers inside the torn and
mud stained clothing. Here also was
death.
Paul stood upright and looked at
them as they lay, silent, motionless,
with their tale untold. Maggie and
Steinmetz stood watching him. He
went to the door, which was of solid
oak four inches thick, and examined
the fastenings. There had been no
damage done to bolt or lock or hinge.
The door had been opened from the
inside. He looked slowly around, meas
uring the distances.
"What is the meaning of it?" he said
at length to Steinmetz in a dull voice.
Maggie winced at the sound of it.
Steinmetz did not answer at once,
but hesitated, after the manner of a
man weighing words which will never
be forgotten by their hearers.
"It seems to me," he said, with a
slow, wise charity, the best of its kind,
"quite clear that De Chauxville died in
trying to save her. The rest must be
only guesswork."
"I suppose," he went on after a
little pause, "that Claude de Chaux
ville has been at the bottom of all our
trouble. All his life he has been one
of the stormy petrels of diplomacy.
Wherever he has gone trouble has fol
lowed later. By some means he ob
tained sufficient mastery o^er the
princess to compel her to obey his or
ders. The means he employed were
threats. He had it in his power to
make mischief, and in such affairs a
woman is so helpless that we may well
forgive that which she may do in a
moment of panic. I imagine that he
frightened the poor lady into obedi
ence to his command that she should
open this door."
He spread out his hands in depreca
tion. In his quaint Germanic way he
held one hand out over the two mo
tionless forms in mute prayer that they
might be forgiven.
"We all have our faults," he said.
"Who are we to judge each othei? If
we understood all we might pardon.
The two strongest human motives are
ambition and fear. She was ruled by
both. I myself have seen her under
the influence of sudden panic. I have
noted the working of her great ambi
tion. She was probably deceived at
every turn by that man, who was a
scoundrel. She must have repented of
her action when she heard the clatter
of the rioters all round the castle. I
am sure she did that. I am sure she
came down here to shut the door and
found Claude de Chauxville here. They
were probably talking together when
the poor mad fools who killed them
came round to this side of the castle
and found them. They recognized her
as the princess. They probably mis
took him for the prince. It is what
men call a series of coincidences. I
wonder what God calls it?"
He broke off, and, stooping dow n, he
drew the lapel of the Frenchman's
cloak gently over the marred face.
"And let us remember," he said, "that
he tried to save-her. Some lives are so.
At the very end a little reparation is
made. In life he was her evil genius.
When he died they trampled him un
derfoot in order to reach her. Made
moiselle, will you come?"
He took Maggie by the arm and led
her gently away. She was shaking all
over, but his hand was steady and
wholly kind.
He led her up the narrow staiis to
her own room. In the little boudoir
the fire was burning brightly the
lamps were lighted, just as the maid
had left them at the first alarm.
Maggie sat down, and quite sudden
ly she burst into tears.
Steinmetz did not leave her. He
stood beside her, gently stroking her
shoulder with his stout fingers. He
said nothing, but the gray mustache
only half concealed his lips, which
were twisted witt^Jittle smile full of
tenderness and^mnathy.
Maggie was the^ffrsfto speak.
"I am all right now," she said.
"Please do not wait any longer and do
not think me a very weak minded per
son. Poor Etta!"
Steinmetz moved away toward the
door.
"Yes," he said, "poor Etta! It is of
ten those who get on in the world who
need the world's pity most."
At the door he stopped.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I will take
you home to England. Is that agreea
ble to you, mademoiselle?"
She smiled at him sadly through her
tears.
"Yes, I should like that" she said.
"This country is horrible. You are very
kind to me."
Steinmetz went downstairs and found
Paul at the door talking to a young ot
cer, who slowly dismounted and
lounged Into the hall, conscious of bis
brilliant uniform, of his own physical
capacity to show off any uniform to
full advantage.
He was a lieutenant in a Cossack
regiment, and as he bowed to Stein
metz, whom Paul introduced, he swung
off his high astrakhan cap with a flour
ish, showing a fair boyish face.
"Yes," he continued to Taul in Eng
lish. "The general sent me over with
a sotnia of men, and pretty hungry
you will find them. We have covered
the whole distance since daybreak. A
report reached the old gentleman that
the whole countryside was about to
rise against you."
"Who spread the report?" asked
Steinmetz.
"I believe it originated down at the
wharfs. It has been traced to an old
man and his daughter, a sort of ped
dler, I think, who took a passage down
the river, but where they heard the ru
mor I don't know."
Paul and Steinmetz carefully avoided
looking at each other. They knew that
Catrina and Stepan Lanovitch had sent
back assistance.
"Of course," said Paul, "I am very
glad to see you, but I am equally glad
to inform you that you are not wanted.
Steinmetz will tell you all about it,
and when you are ready for dinner it
will be ready for you. I will give in
structions that the men be cared for."
"Thanks. The funny thing is that I
am instructed, with your approval, to
put the place under martial law and
take charge."
"That will not be necessary, thanks,"
answered Paul, going out of the open
door to speak to the wild looking Cos
sacks sent for his protection.
While the young officer was chang
ing his uniform for the evening finery
which his servant's forethought had
provided, Paul and Steinmetz hurriedly
arranged what story of the evening
should be given to the world. Know
ing the county as they did, they were
enabled to tell a true tale, which was
yet devoid of that small personal in
terest that gossips love. And all the
world ever knew was that the Princess
Howard Alexis was killed by the re
volted peasants while attempting to
escape by a side door, and that the
Baron Claude de Chauxville, who was
staying in the neighborhood, met his
death in attempting to save her from
the fury of the mob.
On the recommendation of Karl
Steinmetz, Paul placed the castle and
village under martial law, and there
and then gave the command to the
young Cossack officer, pending further
instructions from his general, com
manding at Tver.
The officer dined with Steinmetz and,
under the careful treatment of that
diplomatist, inaugurated a reign of mili
tary autocracy which varied pleasing
ly between strict discipline and boyish
neglect.
Before the master of the situation
had slept off the effects of his hundred
mile ride and a heavy dinner, the next
morning Steinmetz and Maggie were
ready to start on their journey to Eng
land.
The breakfast was served in the
room abutting on the cliff in the dim
light of a misty morning.
The lamps were alight on the table,
and Paul was waiting when Maggie
came down cloaked for her journey.
Steinmetz had breakfasted.
They said good morning and man
aged to talk of ordinary things until
Maggie was supplied with coffee and
toast and a somewhat heavy, manly
helping of a breakfast dish. Then
came a silence.
Paul broke it at length with an ef
fort, standing, as it were, on the edge
of the forbidden topic.
"Steinmetz will take you all the
way," he said, "and then come back to
me. You can safely trust yourself to
his care."
"Yes," answered the girl, looking at
the food set before her with a helpless
stare. "It is not that. Can I safely
trust Etta's memory to your judg
ment? You are very stern, Paul. I
think you might easily misjudge her.
Men do not always understand a wo
man's temptations."
Paul had not sat down. He walked
away to the window and stood there
looking out into the gloomy mists.
"It is not because she was my cous-
in," said Maggie from the table. "It
is because she was a woman leaving
her memory to be judged by two men
who are bothhard."
Paul neither looked around nor an
swered.
"When a woman has to form her
own life and renders it a prominent
one she usually makes a huge mistake
of it," said the girl.
She waited a moment, and then she
pleaded once more hastily, for she
heard a step approaching.
"If you only understood everything
you might think differently. It is be
cause you cannot understand."
Then Paul turned around slowly.
"No," he said, "I cannot Understand
it, and I do not think that I ever
shall."
And Steinmetz came into the room.
In a few minutes the sleigh bearing
Steinmetz and Maggie disappeared into
the gloom, closely followed by a cou
ple of Cossacks acting as guard and
carrying dispatches.
So Etta Sydney Bamboroughthe
Princess Howard Alexiscame back
after all to her husband, lying in a
nameless grave in the churchyard by
the Volga at Tver. Within the white
wallsbeneath the shadow of the great
spangled cupolathey await the ver
dict, almost side by side.
CHAPTER XL.
B|ETWEELittlBrandon,
N in Suffolk
and Thetford i Norfolk, in
England, runs a quiet river,
the Ouse where few
boats break the stillness of the water.
Three years after Etta's death, in
the glow of an April sunset, a Cana
dian canoe waa making its stealthy
Way up the river. The paddle crept In
and out so gently, so lazily and peace
fully, that the dabchicks and other
water fowl did not cease their chatter
of nests and othar April matters as
the canoe glided by.
So quiet, indeed, was its progress
that Karl Steinmetzsuddenly white
headed, as strong old men are apt to
find themselvesdid not heed its ap
proach. He was sitting on the bank,
with a gun, a little rifle, lying on the
grass beside him. He was half asleep
in the enjoyment of a large Havana
cigar. The rays of the setting sun,
peeping through the lower branches,
made him blink lazily like a large, good
natured cat.
He turned his head slowly, with a
hunter's consciousness of the approach
of some one, and contemplated the ca
noe with a sense of placid satisfaction.
The small craft was passing in the
shadow of a great treestealing over
the dark, unruffled depth. A girl dress
ed in white, with a large diaphanous
white hat and a general air of brisk
English daintiness, was paddling slow
ly and with no great skill.
"A picture," said Steinmetz to him
self with Teutonic deliberation. "Gott
im Himmel, what a pretty picture to
make an old man young!"
Then his gray eyes opened suddenly,
and he rose to his feet.
"Coloss-a-al!" he muttered. He drag
ged from his head a lamentable old
straw hat and swept a courteous bow.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "ah, what
happiness! After three years!"
Maggie stopped and looked at him
with troubled eyes. All the color slow
ly left her face.
"What are you doing here?" she ask
ed. And there was something like fear
in her voice.
"No harm, mademoiselle, but good. I
have come down from big game to ver
min. I have here a saloon rifle. I
wait till a water rat comes, and then I
shoot him."
The canoe had drifted closer to the
land, the paddle trailing in the water.
"You are looking at my white hairs,"
he went on, in a sudden need of con
versation. "Please bring your boat a
little nearer."
The paddle twisted lazily in the wa
ter like a fish's tail.
"Hold tight," he said, reaching down.
With a little laugh he lifted the canoe
and its occupant far up on to the bank.
"Despite my white hairs," he said,
with a tap of both hands on his broad
chest.
"I attach no importance to them,"
she answered, taking his proffered
hand and stepping over the light bul
wark. "I have gray ones myself. I
am getting old too."
"How old?" he asked, looking down
at her with his old bluntness.
"Twenty-eight." "Ah, they are summers," he said
"mine have turned to winters. Will
you sit here where I was sitting? See,
I will spread this rug for your white
dress."
Maggie paused, looking through the
trees toward the sinking sun. The
light fell on her face and showed one
or two lines which had not been there
before. It showed a patient tenderness
in the steady eyes which had always
been therewhich Catrina had noticed
in the stormy days that were past
"I cannot stay long," she replied. "I
am with the Faneaux at Brandon for
a few days. They dine at 7."
"Ah, her ladyship is a good friend of
mine! You remember her charity ball
in town, when it was settled that you
should come to Osterno. A strange
world, mademoisellea very strange
world, so small and yet so large and
bare for some of us!"
Maggie looked at him. Then she sat
down.
"Tell me," she said, "all that has
happened since then."
"I went back," answered Steinmetz,
"and we were duly exiled from Rus
sia. It was sure to come. We were
too dangerous. Altogether too quioxtic
for an autocracy. For myself I did
not mind, but it hurt Paul."
There was a little pause, while the
water lapped and whispered at their
feet.
"I heard," said Maggie at length in
a measured voice, "that he had gone
abroad for big game."
"Yes-to India."
"He did not go to America?" inquired
Maggie indifferently. She was idly
throwing fragments of wood into the
river.
"No," answered Steinmetz, looking
straight in front of him. "No, he did
not go to America."
"And you?"
"Ioh, I stayed at home! I have
taken a house. It is behind the trees.
You cannot see it. I live at peace with
all men and pay my bills every week.
Sometimes Paul comes and stays with
me. Sometimes I go and stay with
him in London or in Scotland. I smoke
and shoot water rats and watch the
younger generation making the same
mistakes that we made in our time.
You have heard that my country is in
order again? They have remembered
me. For my sins they have made me
a count Bon Dieu, I do not mind!
They may make me a prince, if it
pleases them."
He was watching her face beneath
his grim old eyebrows.
"These details bore you," he said.
"No." "When Paul and I are together we
talk of a new heaven and a new Rus
sia. But it will not come in our time.
We are only the sowers, and the har
vest is not yet. But I tell Paul that
he has not sown wild oats nor sour
grapes nor thistles."
He paused, and the expression of his
face changed to one of semihumorous
gravity.
"Mademoiselle," he went on, "it has
been my lot to love the prince like a
son. It has been my lot to stand help
lessly by while he passed through
many troubles. Perhaps the good God
gave him all his troubles at first Do
you think so?"
Maggie was looking straight in front
of her across the quiet river.
"Perhaps so,"'she said.
Steinmetz also stared in front of himS#lr%$w?^
during a Uttle silence. The common.^'
thoughts of two minds may well be
drawn together by the contemplation
of a common object. Then he turned
toward her.
"It will be a happiness for him to
see you," he said quietly.
Maggie ceased breaking small
branches and throwing them into the
river. She ceased all movement and
scarcely seemed to breathe.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"He is staying with me here."
Maggie glanced toward the canoe.
She drew a short, sharp breath, but
she did not move.
"Mademoiselle," said Steinmetz ear
nestly, "I am an old man, and in my
time I have dabbled pretty deeply in
trouble. But, taking it all around, even
my life has had its compensations. And
I have seen lifes which, taken as a
mere mortal existence, without look
ing to the hereafter at all, have been
quite worth the living. There is much
happiness in life to make up for the
rest. But that happiness must be firm
ly held. It is so easily slipped through
the fingers. A little irresolution a lit
tle want of moral courage a little
want of self confidence a little pride,
and it is lost You follow me?"
Maggie nodded. There was a js*
tenderness in her pyessuch a
ness as, resting on men, may
them nearer to the angels.
Steinmetz laid his large han^.
hers.
"Mademoiselle," he went on, "I be
lieve that the good God sent you along
wn mf
p?
1
*^Tv^/^
^/d
['?Mr\
^j\ jf
IssT
yg
lir
TjlXV
Pfcttl
p^~
i
"It is mademoiselle!"
this lonely river in your boat Paul
leaves me tomorrow. His arrange
ments are to go to India and shoot
tigers. He will sail in a week. There
are things of which we never speak to
gether there is one name that is never
mentioned. Since Osterno you have
avoided meeting him. God knows I
am not asking for him anything that
he would be afraid to ask for himself.
But he also has his pride. He will not
force himself in where he thinks his
presence unwelcome."
Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderous
ly and stood looking down at her. He
did not, however, succeed in meeting
her eyes.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "I beg of
you most humblymost respectfully
to come through the garden with me
toward the house, so that Paul may at
least know that you are here."
He moved away and stood for a mo
ment with his back turned to her, look
ing toward the house. The crisp rustle
of her dress came to him as she rose
to her feet.
Without looking round he walked
slowly on. The path through the trees
was narrow two could not walk
abreast. After a few yards Steinmetz
emerged on to a large, sloping lawn
with flower beds and a long, low house
above it. On the covered terrace a
man sat writing at a table. He was
surrounded by papers, and the pen in
his large, firm hand moved rapidly
over the sheet before him.
"We still administer the estate," said
Steinmetz in a low voice. "From our
exile we still sow our seed."
They approached over the mossy turf,
and presently Paul looked up, a strong __
face, stern and self contained, the face
of a man who would always have a
purpose in life, who would never be
petty in thought or deed.
For a moment he did not seem to rec
ognize them. Then he rose, and the
pen fell on the flags of the terrace.
"It is mademoiselle!" said Steinmetz,
and no other word was spoken.
Maggie walked on in a sort of uncon
sciousness. She only knew that they
were all acting an inevitable part,
written for them in the great libretto
of life. She never noticed that Stein
metz had left her side that she was
walking across the lawn alone.
Paul came to meet her and took her
band in silence. There was so much to
say that words seemed suddenly value
less there was so little to say that they
were unnecessary.
For that which these two had to tell
each other cannot be told in minutes
nor yet in years. It cannot even be told
in a lifetime, for it is endless, and it
runs through eternity.
THE END.
Late details of the earthquake in
India April show that the calamity
was one of the severest on record. The
disturbed region was 520 miles in
length, with a width not less than 360
miles, more than the area of the Brit-'
ish kingdom. It is reported that this
earthquake was felt at Bombay and
at Calcutta, respectively 890 and 1,020
miles from the center of the disturb
ance, in which case the area in which
the commotion was perceptible nearly
equals the area of all Europe.