where I sat, and sank back only under the pointed hint of a soldier's bayonet. I could not hear the words, but a soft pleading murmur came from Phroso, a short relentless laugh from Mouraki, a silence, a shrug of Mouraki's shoulders. Then he turned and came across

to me.

"Ah, yes, yes," he laughed. "And there is to be one more polite fiction, my dear lord."

"I believe I can guess it," said I, meeting his eye; "though the precise form of it I confess I don't understand."

"Well, our lamented Constatine, who had much experience, but rather wanted imagination, was in favor of a fever. He told me that it was the usual device in Neopalia."

"His wife died of it, I suppose?" I believe I smiled as I put the question, great as was my peril.

"Oh, no; now that's unworthy of you. Never have a fiction when the truth will serve. Since he's dead, he murdered his wife. If he had lived, of course." "Ah, then it would have been fever."

"Precisely; we must adapt ourselves to circumstances. Now in case- Don't you think the outraged patriotism of Neopalia?" he suggested with a smile."You bought the island-you a stranger. It was very rash. These islanders are desperate fel

lows."

"That would have served with Constantine alive, but he's dead. Your patriot is gone, Pacha."

"Alas, yes; our good Constantine is dead. But there are others. There's a fellow whom I ought to hang." "Demetri?" I asked, with a careless air.

"Well, yes, Demetri," smiled the Pasha. "Demetri is very open to reason. I hanged his brother three years

ago."

The little bay in which we were was surrounded by steep and precipitous cliffs except in one place. Here there was a narrow cleft; the rocks did not rise abruptly; the ground sloped gradually upward as it receded from the beach. Just on this spot of gently rising ground Demetri sat, and the Pasha, having amused himself with me for as long as it pleased him, walked up to

Demetri. The fellow sprang to his feet and saluted Mouraki with great respect. Mouraki beckoned to him to come nearer, and began to speak to him.

I sat still where I was, under the bayonets of the soldiers, who faced me and had their backs to their commander. My eyes were fixed steadily on the pair who stood conferring on the slope; and my mind was in a ferment. Scruples troubled me no more; Mouraki himself had made them absurd. I read my only chance of life in the choice or caprice of the wild, passionate barbarian-he was little else who stood with head meekly bowed and knife carelessly dangled in his hand. This man was he of whom Panayiota had spoken so mysteriously; he was the friend whom I had "more than I knew of;" in his blood-feud with the Pasha, in his revengeful wrath, lay my chance. It was only a chance indeed, for the soldiers might kill me. But it was a chance, and there was no other. For if Mouraki won him over by promises or bribes, or intimidated him into doing his will, then Demetri would take the easier task, that which carried no risk and did not involve his own death, as an attack on the Pasha almost certainly would. Would he be prudent and turn his hand. against the single helpless man? Or would his longnursed rage stifle all care for himself and drive him against Mouraki? If so, if he chose that way, there was a glimmer of hope. I glanced at Phroso's motionless figure and pallid face: I glanced at the little boat that floated on the water (why had Demetri not beached it?); I glanced at the rope which bound it to the other boat I measured the distance between the boat and myself; I thrust my hand into the pocket of my coat and contrived to open the blade of my clasp-knife, which was now the only weapon left to me.

Mouraki spoke and smiled; he made no gesture, but there was just a movement of his eyes toward me; Demetri's eyes followed his for an instant, but would not dwell on my face. The Pasha spoke again; Demetri shook his head, and Mouraki's face assumed a persuasive good-humored expression: Demetri glanced round apprehensively. The Pasha took him by the arm, and they went a few paces further up the slope, so as to be

more private in their talk: but was that the object with both of them? Still Demetri shook his head. The Pasha's smile vanished. He spoke in short, sharp sentences, the snap of his lips showing when his mind was spoken. Demetri seemed to plead, he looked uneasy, he shifted from foot to foot, he drew back from the imperious man as though he shunned him and would fain escape from him. Mouraki would not let him go, but followed him in his retreat, step for step; thus another ten yards were put between them and me. Anger and contempt blazed now on Mouraki's face; he raised his hand and brought it down clenched on the palm of the other. Demetri held out his hand as though in protest or supplication. The Pasha stamped with his foot. There were no signs of relenting in his manner.

It

My eyes grew weary with intent watching; I felt like a man who has been staring at a bright white light, too fascinated by its intensity to blink or turn away, even though it pains him to look longer. The figures of the two seemed to become indistinct and blurred. I rubbed my knuckles into my eyes to clear my vision, and looked again. Yes, they were a little farther off, even still a little farther off than when I had looked before. could not be by chance and unwittingly that Demetri always and always and always gave back a pace, luring the Pasha to follow him. No, there was a plan in his head; and in my heart suddenly came a great beat of savage joy of joy at the chance heaven gave, yes, and of lust for the blood of the man against whom I had so mighty a debt of wrong. And, as I gazed now, for an instant-a single, barely perceptible instant-came the swiftest message from Demetri's eyes. I read it; I knew its meaning. I sat where I was, but every muscle of my body was tense and strung in readiness for that desperate leap, and every nerve of me quivered with a repressed excitement that seemed almost to kill. Now! Now! Was it now? I was within an ace of crying "Strike?" But I held the word in and still gazed. And the soldiers leaned easily on their bayonets, exchanging a word or two now and again, yawning sometimes, weary of a dull job, wondering when his Excellency would let them get home again; of what was VOL. XII.-30

THE CITY OF THE BLESSÈD.

The City of the Blessèd is marvellously fair,

And peace and utter happiness are never-ending there.
The houses are of marble, the roofs of gold so fine,
And down their silver channels bubble brooks of ruby

wine.

The streets that shine so white, are all bestrewn with

flowers,

And endless peals of wedding-bells ring out from all the

towers.

The pinnacles, as green as May, gleam in the morning light,

Beset with flickering butterflies, with rose-wreaths decked and dight.

Twelve milk-white swans fly round them in mazy circles wide,

And preen themselves, and ruffle up their plumage in their pride;

They soar aloft so bravely through the shining heavenly

air,

With fragrance all a-quiver and with golden trumpet

blare;

In circle-sweeps majestical for ever they are ringing, And the pulsing of their pinions is like harp-strings softly ringing.

They look abroad o'er Sion, on garden and on sea,
And green and filmy streamers behind them flutter

free

And underneath them wander, throughout the heavenly

land,

The people in their feast array, forever hand in hand; And then into the wide, wide sea filled with the red, red

wine,

Behold! they plunge their bodies with glory all a-shine, They plunge their shining bodies into the gleaming sea, Till in the deep clear purple they're swallowed utterly; And when again they leap aloft rejoicing from the flood,

Their sins have all been washed away in Jesus' blessed -From Hannele.

blood.

few hours ago it was to hope for it, or to fear, or to imagine or conceive it. In like manner, the slow, crawling, upward journey can be followed by every eye; its turns, its twists, its checks, its zigzags may be recorded on a chart. Then is the brief pause--on the summit-and the tottering incline toward the declivity. But how describe what comes after? The dazzling rush that beats the eye, that in its fury of advance, its paroxysm of speed, is void of halts or turns and darting from point to point, covers and blurs the landscape till there seems nothing but the moving thing; and that again, while the watcher still tries vainly to catch its whirl, has sprung and reached, and ceased; and, save that there it was and here it is he would not know that its fierce stir had been.

Such a race runs passion to its goal, when the reins hang loose. Hours may do what years have not done, and minutes sum more changes than long days could stretch to hold. The world narrows until there would seem to be nothing else existent in it-nothing of all that once held out the promise (sure as it then claimed to be) of escape, of help or warning. The very promise is forgotten, the craving for its fulfilment dies away. "Let me alone," is the only cry and the appeal makes its own answer, the entreaty its own concession.-From the God in the Car.