act of his own, for my employer had been
scrupulous in his avoidance of politics. His
son, however, Emile Oginski, had been
convicted of some share in a conspiracy to throw off
the Muscovite yoke, and had been punished by
being forced into the ranks of the army, and
sent to serve as a private in the Caucasus, with
the regiment of Astrakhan.

Two years had elapsed since this harsh
sentence had been carried into effect, and the
young heir to a proud name and fair estate,
a mere boy in years, easily tempted into
the rash plot whose detection had brought
the Czar's vengeance on his head, had never
since been suffered to communicate with his
parents. Count Oginski had in vain invoked
all the influence of his powerful relatives; and
the mother of the poor boy, a high-spirited
woman, who had never been willing to appear
at the imperial court, had conquered her Polish
prejudices so far as to travel to St. Petersburg
and kneel at the Emperor's feet to solicit the
pardon of her son. But Nicholas considered
mercy as mere weakness, and the suppliant was
coldly dismissed. At the same time an order
was transmitted from the Chancellerie of St.
Petersburg that the count, who had long resided
in Italy during most part of the year, should
not quit the Russian dominions without a special
authorisation from the Czar. And it was thought
indulgent by the bureaucrats of the capital to
give "the father of a traitor" the choice between
St. Petersburg and his own Polish estates in
the government of Kalisch. Thus it came about
that the count, suffering from gout, rheumatism,
and a lack of educated companions, wrote to a
friend in London to express his desire for an
English medical attendant, while the high salary
tempted me, a poor young surgeon who had
just taken his doctor's degree, and who had
been for years engaged to a clergyman's
daughter who was good and pretty, but poor as
himself.

And now, when my long letter descriptive of
the strange place and strange people—a letter
that might have wearied others, but which I
knew Alice would read over and over again with
fond interest in every detail—when this letter
was half finished, there came the midnight
summons I have spoken of. Opening the
door, I found myself confronted by the countess.
She was very pale, and she trembled, and I
fancied there were marks of tears hastily dried
upon her face, but her eyes were unusually
bright, and had the restless craving look often
seen in those of some hunted creature. As she
stood in the silent corridor, hung with moth-
eaten tapestry, her dark hair—streaked with early
grey that was due to sorrow more than years—
falling in disorder over her white wrapper, and
a small silver lamp flickering in her unsteady
hand, she looked more like a spirit than a living
woman.

"Madame," I said, " I am at your orders,
but I hope there is no cause for alarm. The
count——"

She interrupted me by a hasty gesture: "The
count is sleeping. He is not ill; it is not
on his account that—ah! M. le Docteur! can
I trust you? Will you help me, and be careful
and silent?"

I stammered out some common-place
assurance of my willingness to do all in my power
to render service to the family, but I dare say
I was awkward in my speech, being not only
unpractised in French conversation, but sorely
puzzled by the visit. Hitherto, I had only known the
mistress of the house as a somewhat proud and
stately lady, with a grave gentleness of bearing,
equally remote from cordiality or haughtiness.
And now this marble figure, so cold and
impassive, agitated, fearful, and with glittering
eyes and loosened hair, a prey to some
inexplicable terror and excitement! Was the
countess mad! No doubt she read the doubts
that were passing through my mind, for she
conquered her own emotion and addressed me in
a calm voice, and in a low and wary tone. She
wanted my aid, she said, for a sick person who
had just arrived at Miklitz, and whose arrival, for
weighty reasons, must be kept a secret from the
household. The sufferer was—would I promise,
as an English gentleman and a man of honour,
not to reveal a word she told me, till I had
permission from herself?—the sufferer was a poor
lad, the son of a former steward, and who had
left the Russian regiment to which he belonged,
without leave.

"He is a deserter, then, madame?"

The countess slowly bent her head, and for a
moment or two tried to speak, but her voice
failed her. Then, to my surprise and dismay,
she sprang forward, dropped on her knees, and
caught my hand in both of hers, passionately
crying aloud:

"Forgive me, monsieur, if I tried to deceive
you. I will trust you; I know I may do so
safely. He is my son, my only son, my dear,
dear boy, come back from the Caucasus,
wounded, famished, to die at the threshold of
his father's house, which he must not enter!"

Here the mother's voice broke into stifling
sobs, and it was with great difficulty, and only by
representing the risk of alarming the household,
that I succeeded in raising her from the ground
and soothing her to a more reasonable frame of
mind. At last she was able to tell me the
rest.

"I could not sleep," she said, eagerly, "and
I looked out of the window into the great
garden, where the fountains were playing, and
all was bright moonlight up to the verge of
the belt of dark oaks. It was then I saw him,
Emile, but so wan and haggard, so ill and
emaciated, in a tattered caftan and cap, like
those of a Russian peasant, that none but a
mother's eyes could have recognised him. His
eyes were dim, and his left arm was bandaged
with a bloody cloth; but it was Emile, my dear
boy, that I have seen in my dreams every night
since the cruel day of his sentence. He was so
ghastly, standing out in the wan moonlight, that
I feared he was dead, far off, and that his
shadow was come to warn me that we should