little furniture, sunshine and air unlimited, and a view from every window which it was worth living to be able to look out upon night and day. This, however, at the moment of which we write was shut out all along the line, the green persiani being closed, and nothing open but the loggia, which was still cool and in the shade. The rooms lay in a soft green twilight, cool and fresh; the doors were open, from one to another, affording a long vista of picturesque glimpses. From where Waring had thrown himself down to rest, he looked straight through over the faded formality of the anteroom with its large old chairs, which were never moved from their place, across his own library, in which there was a glimmer of vellum binding and old gilding, to the table with its white tablecloth, laid out for breakfast in the eating-room. The quiet soothed him after a while, and perhaps the evident preparations for his meal, the large and rotund flask of Chianti which Domenico was placing on the table, the vision of another figure behind Domenico with a delicate dish of mayonnaise in her hand. He could distinguish that it was a mayonnaise, and his angry spirit calmed down. Noon began to chime from the campanile, and Frances came in with out her hat and with the eagerness subdued in her eyes. "Breakfast is ready, papa," she said. She had that look of knowing nothing and guessing nothing beyond what lies on the surface, which so many women have. She was scarcely to be called a woman, not only because of being so young, but of being so small, so slim, so light, with such a tiny figure, that a stronger breeze than usual would, one could not help thinking, blow her away. Her father was very tall, which made her tiny size the more remarkable. She was not beautiful few people are to the positive degree; but she had the prettiness of youth, of round, soft contour and peachlike skin, and clear eyes. Her hair was light brown, her eyes dark brown, neither very remark able; her features small and clearly cut, as was her figure, no slovenliness or want of finish about any line. All this pleasing exterior was very simple and easily comprehended, and had but little to do with her, the real Frances, who was not so easy to understand. She had two faces, although there was in her no guile. She had the countenance she now wore, as it were for daily use — a countenance with out expression, like a sunny, cheerful morning in which there is neither care nor fear- the countenance of a girl calling papa to breakfast, very punctual, knowing that nobody could reproach her as being half of a minute late, or having a hair or a ribbon a hair's-breadth out of place. That such a girl should have ever suspected anything, feared anythingexcept perhaps gently that the mayonnaise was not to papa's taste was be yond the range of possibilities; or that she was acquainted with anything in life beyond the simple routine of regular hours and habits, the sweet and gentle bond of the ordinary, which is the best rule of young lives. Frances Waring had sometimes another face. That profile of hers was not so clearly cut for nothing; nor were her eyes so lucid only to perceive the outside of existence. In her room, during the few minutes she spent there, she had looked at herself in her old-fashioned dim glass, and seen a different creature. But what that was, or how it was, must show itself further on. She led the way into the dining-room, the trimmest composed little figure, all England embodied though she scarcely remembered England — in the self-restrained and modest toilet of a little girl accustomed to be cared for by women well instructed in the niceties of feminine costume; and yet she had never had any one to take counsel with except an Italian maid-of-all-work, who loved the brightest primitive colors, as became her race. Frances knew so few English people that she had not even the admiration of surprise at her success. Those she did know took it for granted that she got her pretty, sober suits, her simple, unelaborate dresses, from some very excellent dressmaker at “home," not knowing that she did not know what home was. Her father followed her, as different a figure as imagination could suggest. He was very tall, very thin, with long legs and stooping shoulders, his hair in limp locks, his shirt-collar open, a velvet coat-looking as entirely adapted to the locality, the conventional right man in the right place as she was the woman. A gloomy look, which was habitual to him, a fretful longitudinal pucker in his forehead, the hollow lines of ill-health in his cheeks, disguised the fact that he was, or had been, a handsome man; just as his extreme spareness and thinness made it difficult to believe that he had also been a very powerful one. Nor was he at all old, save in the very young eyes of his daughter, to whom forty-five was venerable. He might have been an artist or a poet of a misanthropi cal turn of mind; though when a man has chronic asthma, misanthropy is unnecessary to explain his look of pain and fatigue and disgust with the outside world. He walked languidly, his shoulders up to his ears, and followed Frances to the table, and sat down with that air of dis. satisfaction which takes the comfort out of everything. Frances either was inac cessible to this kind of discomfort, or so accustomed to it that she did not feel it. She sat serenely opposite to him, and talked of indifferent things. "Don't take the mayonnaise, if you don't like it, papa; there is something else coming that will perhaps be better. Mariuccia does not at all pride herself upon her mayonnaise." "Mariuccia knows very little about it; she has not even the sense to know what she can do best." He took a little more of the dish, partly out of contradiction, which was the result which Frances hoped. The lettuce is so crisp and young, that makes it a little better," she said with the air of a connoisseur. "A little better is not the word; it is very good," he said fretfully; then added with a slight sigh: "Everything is better for being young." 'Except people, I know. Why does young mean good with vegetables and everything else, and silly only when it is applied to people? — though it can't be helped, I know." "That is one of your metaphysical questions," he said with a slight softening of his tone. 66 Perhaps because of human jealousy. We all like to discredit what we haven't got, and most people you see, are no longer young." "Oh, do you think so, papa? I think there are more young people than old people." "I suppose you are right, Fan; but they don't count for so much, in the way of opinion at least. What has called forth these sage remarks?" "Only the lettuce," she said with a laugh. Then, after a pause: "For instance, there were six or seven children in the party we met to-day, and only two parents." more than two, which of course you will The Then there was a little pause. conversation between the father and daughter was apt to run in broken periods. He very seldom originated anything. When she found a subject upon which she could interest him, he would reply, to a certain limit; and then the talk would drop. He was himself a very silent man, requiring no outlet of conversation; and when he refused to be interested, it was a task too hard for Frances to lead him into speech. She on her side was full of a thousand unsatisfied curiosities, which for the most part were buried in her own bosom. In the mean time, Domenico made the circle of the table with the new dish, and his step and a question or two from his master were all the remarks that accompanied the meal. Mr. Waring was something of a gourmet, but at the same time he was very temperate, a conjunction which is favorable to fine eating. table was delicately furnished with dishes almost infinitesimal in quantity, but su perlative in quality; and he ate his dainty, light repast with gravity and slowly, as a man performs what he feels to be one of the most important functions of his life. His "Tell Mariuccia that a few drops from a fresh lemon would have improved this ragoût-but a very fresh lemon." "Yes, Excellency, freschissimo," said Domenico with solemnity. In the household, generally nothing was so important as the second breakfast, except, indeed, the dinner, which was the climax of the day. The gravity of all concerned, the little, solemn movement round the white-covered table in the still, soft shade of the atmosphere, with those green persiani shutting out all the sunshine without, and the brown old walls bare of any decorations throwing up the group, made a curious picture. The walls were quite bare, the floor brown and pol ished, with only a square of carpet round the table; but the roof and cornices were gilt and painted with tarnished gilding She had not looked up when she made and half-obliterated pictures. Opposite this careless little speech, and yet there to Frances was a blurred figure of a cherub was a purpose in it, and a good deal of with a finger on his lip. She looked up keen observation through her drooped at this faint image as she had done a hun eyelashes. She received his reply with a dred times, and was silent. He seemed little laugh. "I did not mean that, papa; to command the group, hovering over it but that six or seven are a great deal|like a little tutelary god. "There are seldom more than two parents, my dear." L From The Contemporary Review. FROM SIBERIA TO SWITZERLAND. THE STORY OF AN ESCAPE. churia, who either kill or give up to the Russians all the fugitives that fall into their hands. fugitive himself. Imaginary accounts exist in plenty, but, so far as I am aware, no authentic personal narrative of an escape from eastern Siberia at any rate in English or French — has ever before been given to the world. On the other hand, the escape of a prisESCAPES of political and other convicts oner or of a convict under sentence of from western Siberia are more frequent penal servitude is far more difficult than than is generally supposed, but from the flight of an involuntary exile; the lat eastern Siberia, though often attempted, ter may leave when he will, the former they seldom succeed. Save for convicts must either break out of prison or evade under sentence of penal servitude, and his guardians, and being soon missed he actually imprisoned, it is easy to elude runs great risk of being quickly recapthe vigilance of the police and get away tured. How, in one instance at least, by from a convict village or settlement, but boldness, address, presence of mind, and it is almost impossible to get out of the good luck, the difficulties were overcome, country. The immense distances to be the following narrative, related, as nearly traversed, the terrible climate, lack of as possible, in Debagorio Mokrievitch's money, the absolute necessity of keeping own words, will show. Other fugitives, to the high roads, prove, except in a very for instance Nicolas Lopatin, a gentleman few instances, insuperable obstacles to now living at Geneva, who escaped from final success. In order to be really free, Vercholensk in 1881, may have encounmoreover, it is imperative for a fugitive tered great hardships, but, being exiles at not only to pass the frontier of European large, they were neither so soon missed Russia, but to reach some country where nor so quickly pursued. Debagorio was he runs no risk of falling into the clutches under sentence of penal servitude, and of the imperial police. Even in Germany the flight from Siberia of a man conhe is liable to be recaptured, and is really demned to penal servitude is almost unexsafe only in England, France, or Switzer- ampled. Even rarer than an escape is land. Hence, to make good a flight from the true account of one, related by the eastern Siberia requires a conjuncture of so many favorable and nearly impossible circumstances as to render a complete escape a rare and remarkable event. But the incentives to escape are as great as the obstacles to success. No life can be more horrible than that of a political exile in the far east or far north of Siberia. Even at Irkoutsk the mean temperature is fifty degrees below the freezing-point of Réaumur; for many months of the year the sun in some parts of the country shines but two or three hours in the twenty-four, and for days together darkness covers the face of the land. A man untrained to manual labor, or unacquainted with the arts of trapping and killing wild animals and collecting peltry, turned adrift in the remoter parts of Siberia, runs the risk of perishing of hunger and cold. A ON the evening of February 11, 1879, Russian refugee, now at Geneva, tells several friends of the revolutionary cause, that, during his sojourn in eastern Siberia, of whom I was one, met at Yvitchevitche's he spent the greater part of the long win- lodgings, in the house Kossarovsky, ter in bed, rising only to swallow some Yleanski Street, Kieff, the town where I rancid oil, the sole food he could obtain. was then living. After a short conversaTo escape from such a life as this a man tion, Anton, myself, and several others will risk almost anything. Even incar-left the house with the intention of passceration in a central prison, or the penal servitude of the mines, can hardly be more terrible. The trouble is, that the way to freedom lies through western Siberia and Russia in Europe. The road south is barred by the wild tribes that haunt the frontiers of Mongolia and Man I first heard of Mokrievitch in May, 1881, a few days after his arrival in Geneva, and through the kindness of Prince Krapotkine obtained (and communicated to a London newspaper) a brief sketch of his fellow-exile's adventures; but for certain reasons, that exist no longer, it was not considered expedient to publish the full and complete account which the reader will find in the following pages. WILLIAM WESTALL. THE ARREST. ing the rest of the evening with our friend Madame Babitchev. The inevitable samovar was bubbling on the table, our hospitable hostess gave us a warm wel come, cigarettes were lighted, conversation was joined, and an hour or more passed very pleasantly. at the trail, and conducted to the Libed police station. Even before we reached our destination we could see that something unusual had happened. The building was lighted up, and there was an excited crowd about the door. After mounting the staircase we were led into It was filled with Anton was the first to leave, and he could hardly have reached the street when we were startled by a loud report like the firing of a pistol. We stared at each other in consternation, and Strogov, running into the anteroom, looked through the window and listened at the door, in order to find out what had happened. In a few min- the waiting room. utes he came back with satisfactory tid-armed men. Pushing my way with some ings. Nothing unusual seemed to be stirring in the street; and he attributed the report we had heard to the banging of a door in a neighboring café. So we resumed our conversation and our tea drinking with quiet minds. But five minutes later we were again disturbed; this time by sounds the character of which there was no mistaking. The trampling of heavy feet in the vestibule, hurried exclamations, words of command, and the rattling of arms, told us only too well with whom we had to do. The police were upon us. Notwithstanding our desire to resist, we knew that we should be compelled to yield without a blow. There was not a weapon amongst us. A few seconds were passed in anxious thought. Then the double-winged doors were thrown violently open, and we saw that the anteroom was occupied by a detachment of soldiers, with bayonets lowered and ready to charge. From the right flank came the words, loud and clear: "Will you surrender, gentlemen? I am the officer in command of the detachment." I looked round and recognized in the officer with the gendarme uniform and drawn sword, Soudeikin in person, then a subaltern in the Kieff gendarmerie, later the famous chief of the political police of the capital. difficulty through the press, I saw on the other side of the room several of our friends. But, my God, what a state they were in! Posen and Steblin Kamensky were bound hand and foot; the cords so tightly drawn that their elbows, forced behind their backs, actually touched. Close to them were Mesdames Arnfeld, Sarandovitch, and Patalizina. It was evident that something extraordinary had befallen in the house of Kossarovsky, shortly after we left. I could not, however, ask our friends any questions, for that would have been taken as proof that we were acquainted. Yet, from a few words dropped here and there, I soon learnt what had come to pass. They had resisted the police, a gendarme had been killed, and all whom we had left at the meeting arrested. I had hardly made this discovery when a disturbance was heard in the next room trampling of feet, loud exclamations, and voices in contention, one of which I seemed to know. The next moment a man burst into the reception-room, literally dragging behind him two gendarmes, who tried in vain to stop him. His dishevelled hair, pale face, and flaming eyes, showed that he had been engaged in a struggle beyond his strength. In a few minutes he was garotted and forced into a seat near us. "Separate the prisoners one from an other!" cried Colonel Novitzki. On this each of us was immediately surrounded by four soldiers. "If they resist, use your bayonets!" said the colonel. Despite the imposing military array, the haughty bearing of the officer, the glittering bayonets and stern looks of the soldiers, and the unpleasant sense of having fallen into their toils, the whole affair seemed to me just a little amusing, and I After a short interval we were called could not help smiling, and saying, in an-one after another into the next room. I swer to Soudeikin's summons, "Are we then a fortress, Mr. Officer, that you call upon us to surrender?" 66 'No; but your comrades "the rest of the sentence, owing to the din, I did not catch. "What comrades?" I asked. "You will soon see," replied Soudeikin. Then he ordered his men to search us, after which we were to be taken to the police office. The searching over, we were surrounded by thirty or forty soldiers, with arms was called the last. On responding to the summons I found myself in the presence of several gendarmes and officers of police, by whom I was searched a second time. "Have the goodness to state your name," said Colonel Novitzki, after the operation was completed. "I would rather not," I answered. are. "You will do me a great pleasure," I replied. "You are called Debagorio Mokrie- | Not a figure without uniform was to be vitch," said the colonel. seen, and strong bodies of troops occupied every street corner. "Yes, that is your name," put in Soudeikin. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, colonel," I answered, giving the military salute. It would have been useless to deny my identity. My mother, my brother, and my sister were living at Kieff, and I did not want to have them compelled to confront the police and ordered to recognize me. THE SENTENCE. WE were lodged in the principal prison of Kieff. On April 20, we received copies of the indictment, drawn up by Strelnikoff, prosecuting advocate to the Military Tribunal (he was afterward killed at Odessa). We were, in all, fourteen prisoners, accused of sedition, of belonging to secret political societies, and of resist ing the police. In order to give greater publicity to the trial, we resolved to have ourselves defended by counsel from St. Petersburg, and put forward a request to this effect. But after some delay we were informed that if we wanted advocates we must choose them from among the candidates for judgeships attached to the tribunal of Kieff, and therefore dependent for promotion on the functionary by whom the prosecution was to be conducted. Deeming this a practical denial of justice, we determined to take no active part whatever in the proceedings. At six o'clock on the morning of April 20, we were taken before the tribunal. Eight of our party were men, six women. The first thing that struck me was the strength of the escort more than a hundred Cossacks, besides gendarmes and policemen. Officers were running from group to group, giving orders and making arrangements, as if they were preparing for a general action. The women were led off first, after which we men were placed in a large barred carriage, so spacious indeed that we could all seat our selves comfortably. Then the procession moved off. At its head rode Gubernet, the chief of the police. After him came the captain of the gendarmerie, Rudov, an old schoolfellow of mine. Our carriage was surrounded by Cossacks, the rear-rank men carrying loaded carbines. All the horses were put to the gallop, and the police, who feared a manifestation in our favor, had cleared the streets of spectators, and ordered a complete suspension of traffic. I need not describe the trial if trial it can be called: it lasted four days, and ended in the condemnation of three of our number to death; the rest were sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. My sentence was fourteen years and ten months' penal servitude. We were led back to prison with precisely the same precautions as had been observed when we were taken before the tribunal. The people were not allowed by their presence in the street to show even silent sympathy, either with us, or with the cause for which we suffered and so many have perished. After the verdict and the sentence life became a little easier for us. Instead of being compelled to take exercise one by one, we were now allowed to meet and walk about freely in the prison yard. The police had an object in granting us this indulgence. Before the trial several attempts had been made to take our photographs; but this we had resolutely refused to allow. For those who cherish hopes of regaining their liberty, the possession of their likeness by the police is strongly to be deprecated. We were now informed by the authorities of the gaol that unless we complied with their wishes in this matter our meetings and our walks would be stopped. We enjoyed our social intercourse immensely. It was an un. speakable comfort to us. Three of our little company were under sentence of death, the fate of three others trembled in the balance, and would be made known only at the foot of the scaffold. It was not possible that we could long remain together, and we offered to comply with the wish of our gaolers on condition that we should not be separated until the last. This condition being accepted, our photographs were taken. The quarters of several of us were in an upper story of the prison, and from our grated windows we could watch the construction of the gallows. The place of execution was a plain about two-thirds of a mile from the prison gates. Those doomed to death, being on a lower story, did not witness these ghastly preparations, and none of us, of course, gave them a hint of what was going on. At length, and only too swiftly, came the 13th of May. We had been told nothing, but from the completion of the gallows, the behavior of the warders, and from other signs, we thought that the |