rigorous
search of the premises was made.

Of course nothing was found; but, to the amazement of all, Sigismund was
formally arrested.

"There must be some mistake," he exclaimed, "I have been resident in
England for some time. I have no connection whatever with Russian
politics."

"Oh, we are well aware of your residence in England," said the pristav.
"You left St. Petersburg early in March 1881. We are well aware of
that."

Something in the man's tone made Sigismund's heart stand still. Could he
possibly be suspected of complicity in the plot to assassinate the late
Czar? The idea would have made him laugh had he been in England. In St.
Petersburg, and under these circumstances, it made him tremble.

"There is some terrible mistake," he said. "I have never had the
slightest connection with the revolutionary party."

The pristav shrugged his shoulders, and Sigismund, feeling like one in a
dream, took leave of his relations, and was escorted at once to the House
of Preventive Detention.

Arrived at his destination, he was examined in a brief, unsatisfactory
way; but when he angrily asked for the evidence on which he had been
arrested, he was merely told that information had been received charging
him with being concerned in the assassination of the late Emperor, and of
being an advanced member of the Nihilist party. His vehement denials
were received with scornful incredulity, his departure for England just
after the assassination, and his prolonged absence from Russia, of course
gave colour to the accusation, and he was ordered off to his cell "to
reflect."

MY TRIUMPHANT FINALE

Words are mighty, words are living;
Serpents with their venomous stings,
Or bright angels crowding round us,
With heaven's light upon their wings;
Every word has its own spirit,
True or false, that never dies;
Every word man's lips have uttered
Echoes in God's skies.

A. A. PROCTER.

My labours were now nearly at an end, and being, so to speak, off duty, I
could occupy myself just as I pleased. I therefore resolved to keep
watch over Zaluski in his prison.

For the first few hours after his arrest he was in a violent passion; he
paced up and down his tiny cell like a lion in a cage; he was beside
himself with indignation, and the blood leapt through his veins like
wildfire.

Then he became a little ashamed of himself and tried to grow quiet, and
after a sleepless night he passed