yside in a constant and brilliant state of illumination.

Creeping carefully on, Grenville soon gained the welcome shadow of the
houses, and at this moment the storm broke with added fury, the wind
howling as if all the fiends of hell were let loose, and, sweeping along
the earth, carried with it a perfect avalanche of stones, leaves, and
branches. Blast followed blast, and crash succeeded crash, until, with
a shock like an earthquake, two large buildings suddenly gave way and
came to the ground like houses of cards, crushing their wretched inmates
under their ruins, and drawing half of East Utah to the scene of the
calamity.

Silently gliding away like the spirit of evil, Grenville at last
approached the public offices of the town, which consisted of a large
rough building pierced with one small door below, at the rear, and
entered from the front by a handsome flight of steps through a portal of
commanding appearance.

Towards the back door, however, Grenville directed his tortuous course,
constantly hiding, yet cautiously and continuously approaching, until,
hidden by a stone buttress, he stood within a dozen feet of the little
door, and within half that distance of the guard pacing up and down
before it with his musket on his shoulder, and from time to time casting
uneasy glances at the sky. Waiting for the next flash, Grenville sprang
upon the sentry and felled him like a log with a blow from Amaxosa's
war-club, and with a second blow from the same weapon burst open the
door and dragged the man's body inside.

The first drops of rain now began to fall, and in another moment the
water was coming down in sheets, and Grenville knew that for some
minutes at least, the absence of the sentry was likely to remain
unperceived.

Striking a light, he found himself in a sort of low cellar, and seeing
another door before him, he burst this in, and, to his complete
satisfaction, found himself exactly where he had hoped to be, yet feared
the possibility of penetrating. There before his eyes lay piled up
barrel upon barrel of what--wine? No, gentle reader. Richard
Grenville's desperate scheme was now realised beyond his fondest hopes,
and he stood _in the powder magazine_ of East Utah.

Grenville lost no time, but knocking in the heads of a number of barrels
with his club, he filled his hat with powder, and laid a thick train
across the ground to the outer door; this operation, however, took some
little time, for it ha