"Very well, sir, do not speak since it pleases
you to keep silence. But you shall not leave
this hotel for two days. I will have a room got
ready for you next to mine, and one of these
gentlemen will keep you company. As for
you," he continued, addressing my friend,
"you will allow your life to be taken, if it
should be necessary, and you will not quit this
gentleman one single step. If he should take
to flight, have him arrested, and even have
yourself arrested, as a Polish conspirator."

He rang the bell, and a waiter came; a room
was asked for, and a porter to go to the station
of the Dresden railway for the new comer's
luggage. This was in order to give a semblance
of truth to the improvised arrival. The porter
came immediately.

"Take this letter for me to the post," said I
to him; "as I pass near the station, I will
myself take my friend's portmanteau."

All went well, and we attracted no attention.
In the evening I returned to the hotel. I
caused our prisoner to be asked if he would
receive me. He had become cooler, and except for
a violent tirade against the Poles, was very calm
and dignified. His honorary guardian profited
by my arrival to go and take some rest. The
day had been very warm; but in the evening,
after a sharp shower, the air had become
refreshing; we seated ourselves near the large
open window, both in silence. I was thirsty;
the officer rang, and had some ice, water,
lemon, sugar, and rum brought; and while he
was preparing sherbet, conversation began
between us. I made an appeal to all his noble
and generous feelings, in order to show him
the enormity of homicide committed out of
warfare. I endeavoured to induce him to write to
his comrade, and to trust me with the missive.
But all I could say failed to move him.

My fellow-countryman who had been placed
on guard, returned after taking some rest. It
was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and I
was then free to depart.

Thus half the danger was averted. But
there remained the other half, in the person of
the other officer, uncaught. We were driven
to our last and most perilous resource, that of
posting a guard at the railway station of the
Frankfort-on-the-Oder and Königsberg line,
which the grand-duke must take in order to
return to St. Petersburg. Ten Poles were
ordered to be at the station and its approaches;
we had, moreover, some Prussian policemen in
our pay; to two of whom I gave an order to be
on the platform.

The evening arrived; I took my large blue
cotton umbrella, with which I have travelled
in Poland on my most perilous journeys. This
umbrella has such an unsuspicious appearance,
that it has done wonders for me many a time. I
betook myself to the station; all our people were
at their posts; it was getting towards half-past
eight; the train was to leave in an hour and a
half, and the grand-duke was expected a quarter
of an hour before its departure.

I walked about the waiting-rooms, having
myself the air of a bonâ fide traveller, when
suddenly I caught sight of Mr. White, the
English vice-consul at Warsaw; the most
straightforward and most honourable and
gentlemanly of all the official personages with
whom I ever had to do. Recognising me, he said:
"What are you doing here? You ought to
know it is not a safe place for you!" We had
exchanged but a few words, when one of my fellow-
countrymen made me a sign. Our prisoner's
fellow-conspirator had arrived at the station.
After a struggle of short duration he had
been bundled by our men into a vehicle. Happily
the night was very dark. Some luggage-porters
who saw the scene burst out laughing, and said:
"That's a fellow who has forgotten to pay
his bill!" From a long Colt's revolver, with
six barrels loaded, the property of the officer,
the charges were quickly drawn. At this
moment the grand-duke arrived, with several
carriages. One of the King of Prussia's brothers
was with him, and M. d'Oubril, the Russian
ambassador.

We did not yet go away, but each of six of us
who remained took a post of observation until
the departure of the train. The brother of the
czar little thought that he was surrounded by
a secret Polish guard, and little dreamed of the
danger he had escaped through the benign
influence of the Pole Star.

             UP-HILL WORK.

To long and not to have, like Tantalus; to
have and not to hold, like the Danaides; to
feed, from one's own life, a vulture gorging
without thankfulness, like Prometheus—were
punishments quite worthy of Dîs and Hades;
but worse than all these was the doom of poor
old Sisyphus, for ever rolling his stone up-hill—
the doom of eternal striving without fulfilment
—the curse of unending effort never attaining
success. Poor old Sisyphus is the type of the
class of the disappointed among ourselves.
Few things are harder to bear than the
disappointment which lies in frustrated effort. To
forgo the good thing promised through the
grace without, is not an overwhelming grief;
but the labour which is in vain—the strength
put forth to mere waste—the hope proved
delusion—the high-set aim with our arrow falling
short—all these represent the true curse of
Sisyphus in the shame and anguish of failure.
Miserable copies of old Sisyphus as we are, the
stone which we have rolled with infinite pains
and trouble to the summit, returns with a sounding
clang to our feet, and the labour of years—it
may be of our whole life—is in vain.

Little comfort it brings to us to know that
we have quarried our stone in the first instance
by our own folly; and that we have only ourselves
to thank for its weight, its uncomfortable
angles, and the swarm of creeping things about
its base. What good did it do my poor uncle,
ruminating painfully in his pleasant parsonage,
to say sorrowfully, "I have only myself to thank