me such scraps of news as fell in his way. From
him I learned that a wide-spread plot had been
detected, that the police were scouring the city,
and that the citadel was full of captives, some of
whom belonged to the noblest families of Poland.

"What will be done with them?" I asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Generous
Englishman, who knows? They will be tried by
court-martial, and perhaps some may suffer death.
Those who are lucky will get off with five years
in a fortress, in irons, or with service against
Schamyl in the Caucasus. Most of them will be
knouted or sent to Siberia. Poor wretches! they
are goaded to revolt, and then crushed."

"Hush, friend," said I, hastily, for I thought
I heard a step and the clink of spurs in the
corridor, and I knew what linguists the Russian
officers were. "Hush! Politics are best left
undiscussed, at any rate on this side of Cracow."

The caution I had just administered was
entirely prompted by the fear that Ignatius would
get himself into trouble, were eavesdroppers to
overhear his rash remarks. Indeed, it was not
the first time in our hurried journey that
Ignatius had uttered something which, however
slight, showed advanced ideas for a Russian of
the days before the Crimean war.

I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the
pillow, but my dreams were troubled and
painfully vivid. The old Princess Sobieski,
transformed into a malignant fairy, hovered
incessantly around my couch, waving her ivory-
handled crutch-stick (she was lame, and carried
such a prop) by way of a wand, and mopping
and mowing at me in the wickedest exultation.
Ignatius, in a black cloak, with a stiletto in his
right hand, glided around me like a snake, and
was always on the point of stabbing — whom or
what I know not. And Dillon, the young
attaché, was frequently present, always gasping,
breathless, eager to communicate some all-
important secret, but entirely unable to do more
than make the most absurd grimaces. I think
this last phase of the dream must have awakened
me, for I awoke, laughing, the amusement
predominating over the more disagreeable
impressions to which my visions were calculated to
give rise. I laughed again, as I rubbed my
eyes. Poor Dillon! what a queer figure he
cut, hatless, and gurgling for breath, at the end
of the platform! I wonder what mighty
intelligence the poor lad sought to communicate.
Some mare's nest, no doubt.

The soft morning light was pouring in, and
the early bugles were sounding at the Russian
barracks far away. I rose, ordered breakfast,
and writing a short note to Count Szomyzy, sent
it by a mounted messenger. Ponies and boys,
equally unkempt, wild, and active, are always
plenty in Poland, and the promise of an extra
rouble for speed sent off the emissary like a
cannon-shot. In a briefer time than I had
expected, the boy returned, bearing a courteous
answer from the noble Polish landholder,
begging that I would take up my quarters at the
castle, where a friend of his sister would always
be more than welcome, and naming five o'clock
as the dinner-hour, if not inconvenient to
myself. I determined to accept this frank
invitation, the rather as I was anxious to see
something of Polish customs and character.
Suddenly it occurred to me that the note was open
when delivered, and I sharply questioned the
boy who had brought it.

"Gracious sir, the Russian guard!"

It really appeared, on further inquiry, that
the guard stationed at the gate of the city had
stopped the messenger both on his exit and
return, and that my note, like that of the count,
had been unscrupulously opened and read by
the subaltern in command. This was not a
usual precaution, even during a state of siege;
but I was informed that private intelligence
which had reached the authorities had induced
extreme vigilance. It was rumoured that some
manifesto, or other document, of the utmost
importance, and to which were appended the
signatures of many men of high rank and
influence, hostile to Muscovite rule, was passing
from hand to hand. And every "plotnik" in
Poland was anxious to earn promotion and
reward by intercepting papers of so
compromising a character.

"A carriage of some sort, Ignatius, to take me
to the château. Then, if you will have the bill ready,
and the luggage taken down, we can start by the
express for the south, after I get back again.
The rest of the day will be at your own disposal,
of course. I dare say you have friends here who
will be glad to see you."

The eleven versts of sandy road were soon
performed by the fleet, loose-jointed Lithuanian
horses, which were driven in a sort of wickerwork
cart, covered with a pink and white tilt, by
a wild lad in a sheepskin pelisse. I chatted
with the driver, and we understood each other
pretty well, considering that I only knew some
scraps of Polish and Russian. He was, he told
me, a noble, the son of a man who had had his
property confiscated by the Moskov tyrants for
joining Kosciusko. His father was a glazier, his
two uncles worked in a forge, and he had four or
five brothers and sisters. They lived very poorly,
on cabbage soup and rye bread; they could not
read or write; the one thing they knew and cared
for was that they were Poles — Poles and nobles.

"Are there many like you?"

"Gracious sir, who knows! Thousands, very
likely. Perhaps more. I could mention a good
number. We are ill off now, but we shall get
our own again when we have chased away the
Russians. Yes, yes, the good times will come
back. Hoop! horses! hoop! away!"

Presently we saw the castle, with its straggling
line of brick and timber buildings, large
but irregular, and one grey tower rising over the
rest of the pile, dinted and crumbling, but of
immense solidity.

Dashing through some slovenly plantations,
where the wild-plum and wild-pear, the favourite
trees of the Polish nation, overnumbered the
elms and birch-trees, we reached the gate, and
were received by a large retinue of servants and
barking dogs. There was not one of the former