The Kenilworth Advertiser. — 1898-02-19 (Kenilworth, Warwickshire, England)

CHAPTER IV.  The Petting sun shot some beams of its departing light on a small town in Russia, among a thousand others. Upon one side of the town stretched a plain so wide that thought seldom strayed to its horizon, beyond which lay nothing in particular, excepting a road to Siberia. On the other side rolled a muddy river, which washed the walls of a prison. The gaoler was just setting down a supper in one cell. He glanced at the prisoner with some kindliness—certainly spoke with deference, as he said good night. The prisoner, who had been sitting with his head on his hands, seeming dazed, looked up. He was a young man, and surely the gentlest political offender imaginable. His singularly broad brow was that of a thinker, while his prominent brown eyes were as shy as thou of a hare. It needed not the lank, fine hair and the tender mouth to tell that here was one who might be a scholar, visionary, priest; but not a man of action.  Yet, once alone, he roused himself, with a look of concentrating his energies at the call of duty. He began to eat his supper—but oddly. Bit by bit he broke his bread into morsels, with the dainty fingers of one used to delicate living—ot like a chemist. Suddenly, his hand closed on one bit. His face flushed, and gazing at the cell door, he extracted a ainall object, wrapped in paper, from the dough.  It was a ale. Then, studying the paper in the hollow of his hand by the fading light, be read the words:  "After midnight. Bow in street. Hay-cart will stop outside window. Be ready and jump." The prisoner gazed at the message with the rapt look of a lover and softly kissed it. Still, he raised his hand cautiously, so that any spying eyes, if such watched hint, might think he meditated. "Was there ever such a wonderful little woman! he murmured. "How she works for me—acts— devises It is well she sends another Ale, for the Brut broke so soon. I must be more cautious with this one."  Darkness stole on before the scanty meal was finished. And presently a faint scratching noise. which stopped at times, might have been heard at the window. The sound went on for hours.  Towards half-past eleven there was dead silence in the cell. Then midnight .truck. The prisoner trembled, lie fancied that be heard a muffled sound. It was the beating of his own heart.  Now—now! . . . The heavy roll of waggon wheels became audible in the distance. One could bear far in the intense quiet which wrapped the town. Nearer than the advancing wave of noise, his ears also caught every step of the sentry's tread below—heard with a sick loathing—with a yearning impatience for liberty which might have meant murder in the mind of a man more fierce.  Outside, the sentry, thinking no harm to anyone, dreamt of a glass of fiery vodka, watched • waggon piled high with hay that rumbled in from the country in slow fashion; the driver au. .lf-aslesp. tip rattled another vehicle just then, resembling a rough spring-cart. A woman sat huddled on the seat, beside her husband apparently; the latter, who was doubtless a country shopkeeper, or bettorelms peasant, was gloriously tipsy. "Milos, there! Clear the way I" ha shouted uproariously to the wagoner. 'Make room, or I 11 drive into you!" The sleepy waggoner kept on his course, being right in front of the prison. There might have been room to pass, but the drunkard either could not or would not steer straight. He drove right into the waggon. Then began a row. The waggoner pulled, too late, close spinet the prison wall in his bewilder. meat; stopped, and hoarsely bespattered ltis opponent with abuse. The latter had • still more rie vocabulary of scurrilous epithets.