the absolute rest that had fallen upon him, startled the beholders with a vague sense of fear.

At a word from the Tsar, Patouchki crossed the cell and laid his hand upon the bowed shoulders. A shudder passed over the form, followed by a long and weary sigh, and then the head was lifted, and two feverish, bright eyes gazed out of the hollow sockets. For a moment he looked at them bewildered, and then, with a sudden, thrilling cry, he flung himself forward and fell at the feet of the Tsar, exclaiming in broken, feeble tones:

"Blessed be God in Sion; He has heard my prayer! Blessed be our Lady of Kazan! It is the face of my Tsarawich I see once more; it is the face of my little father—my Tsar! Oh, my Emperor, I am Alexis—Alexis of Battenkoff. I am an old man of over four-score, who, for fifty long years, served your father—my Tsar Alexander—and who, after all that time of faithful love and devotion, have been left to rot in this terrible pest-house for two long weary years. Pardon me, little father, pardon me! I have done no wrong, believe me. I have never plotted against my sovereigns; I have loved them always, and served them to the extent of my poor abilities. I had no hand in that bloody murder; I was innocent of all participation in it. I would have given my life's blood to save my Emperor. Why should I seek his death! Pardon me, my little father, as your sire, whose soul sees me now, would have pardoned me!"

As the last words passed from his lips the old man sank back, his hands twitched convulsively, and he fell on the floor in a swoon. So sudden had been his movement forward and so rapid his utterance, neither the officials nor Patouchki had time to interpose, but the latter now stepped quickly forward, as the Tsar, with a gesture, motioned to him to approach, and after giving him some directions, speaking earnestly and decisively, turned abruptly and left the cell. Neither the Tsarina nor Olga Naundorff had entered this casemate, the Empress's tender heart had therefore been spared the harrowing scene.

As the Imperial party drove away from the terrible fortress, and the brilliant sunshine caught at the glittering harness and bright trappings of the guard, a cry arose on the boulevard: "It is the Tsar, and our Tsarina! Long live the little father! Long live the Tsar!" But neither God's sunshine, nor the loyal shouts of his people could bring back the colour to the Emperor's face, or banish the look of care and anxiety that rested so heavily upon it.

The next morning an Imperial pardon was sent to Petropavlovsk for Alexis Battenkoff, but it came too late. The weary spirit and sorely wounded heart were at rest in eternity; the old man's soul had passed beyond all earthly pardon, into the Almighty hands of justice and recompense.

CHAPTER IV.

SUSPICIONS.

For many days the Petersburg Imperial press rang the changes unceasingly on this last benignant and forgiving act of the Tsar's.

It called upon all malcontents and revolutionists to say, if in this pardon were not displayed the utmost leniency and mercy. For was it not well known that Alexis Battenkoff was taken almost red-handed at the assassination of the late Tsar? And, indeed, who but one familiar, through long habit and confidence, with the movements of the Emperor, could have supplied the knowledge which assured the grim success of the dastardly attack? Was not Alexis always to be found, under suspicious circumstances, consorting with the most pronounced of the Nihilist faction; and could he be there save for one purpose only? Could one touch pitch and not be defiled?

Where then, in modern history, could another such act of condonation be pointed out, as this by which the Tsar had pardoned a participator in his father's murder? Was not that answer sufficient to all the treacherous suggestions, the menacing innuendoes, that had been ripe and bursting for so long in Petersburg? Perhaps now the organs of the opposition would cease their importunate blating, since the Tsar's inspection of Petropavlovsk had resulted in such a redress of imaginary wrongs, as not even their wildest dreams could have supposed possible. And was not the hand of Almighty justice made plainly visible, in that Alexis of Battenkoff was not permitted to taste again of liberty, but was stricken by death before the news of the Tsar's generosity could reach him? Let those who would, read well the lesson thus openly delivered to them.

Paul Patouchki read the enthusiastic laudations and pious thanksgivings in the silence of his apartments in the Chancellerie, and, as he did so, a slow, inscrutable smile crept over his face and lingered there.

It was not often that the chief recognised any direct interposition of Divine Providence in the political turmoils of Russia; indeed, in his own heart, he scoffed at all such superstitions, and acknowledged frankly that the Imperial Government neither desired, nor would appreciate, any such interference with its autocratic despotism.

But certainly, for once, he saw in the Battenkoff incident and death a most opportune intervention, whether Divine or otherwise, since by it the hands of the Imperial party could be strengthened, and for a time, at least, their policy be freed from too suspicious and too true aspersions. To his mind, like the last of the Stuart Pretenders, nothing in life so well became poor Alexis of Battenkoff as his leaving it, how and when he did. It was the one touch needful to stamp the Imperial inspection of Petropavlovsk with triumphant success, and to prove a satisfying sop even to so hydra-mouthed a Cerberus as the disaffected party; and therefore he was thankful, though none knew better than he that no actual improvement had been effected, no evils redressed, no reforms instituted in the governmental department of Petropavlovsk. The giant fortress closed its jaws just as tyrannically upon its victims, and abated not one jot or tittle of its iron-handed authority.

Patouchki, however, had too many anxieties pressing upon him to spend over much time in complaisant reading of political trumpet notes; he laid aside the Petersburg Messenger and turned toward his desk, on which lay a heavy correspondence not yet disposed of. As he sat down in his familiar place, the grim smile faded from his lips, to be replaced by a dark frown that knit together the black eyebrows, and accentuated the strong lines about the eyes and mouth. In truth, the chief was more concerned than he liked to admit, even to himself, at Ivor Tolskoi's news; and though at the time he endeavoured to treat it with cavalier disbelief, he nevertheless had an inner consciousness, of its truth, and a presentiment of complications to follow in consequence.

That Adèle Lamien should be in Petersburg, and the Chancellerie have neither warning of her intentions, nor knowledge of her presence, seemed, as he had said to Tolskoi, impossible; and yet, even as the word fell from his lips, he knew himself to be wrong, and Ivor to be right. The great spy system had failed for once, imperceptibly almost, and so far without damaging results, but it had, nevertheless, proved itself vulnerable, and had found its match in the quick wits and ready ingenuity of a woman. Even all the elaborate machinery of the Chancellerie had not been sufficient, when pitted against the devices of one weak, fugitive woman.

Yes, that was where the shoe pinched; to be duped by the very criminal they were pursuing, and to hear her laugh in their ears, as she slipped out of their fingers! And then, what a bad precedent was even this slight dereliction on the part of the Chancellerie; and how could the discipline of fear be kept up in the minds of the younger members of the great body, if such a defection became known? And the woman, Adèle Lamien, was brazen enough and clever enough, smarting as she was under her own wrongs, to circulate their blindness and failure, just where it would most redound to their discredit.

"It is