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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.