t of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his
mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach
the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pass, and, joking and laughing merrily,
the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with
powder for the blowing up of the arsenal. How joyous and careless they
are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke
his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of
powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin
to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big
drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and
why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the
powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.

Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart-rending, pitiful cry. The burning
pipe drops from his mouth!

Then rises a wild yell--an awful, horrible report!

The earth quakes and trembles, as if about to open, to vomit forth the
burning stream of a thundering crater. The sky seems blackened by the
fearful smoke which fills the air far and wide. Everywhere may be seen
human bodies, single shattered limbs, ruins of the exploded building,
flying through the air, and covering the groaning, trembling earth.
But no syllable or sound of complaint, no death-rattle is now heard.
All is over.

The powder-mills have flown into the air, and, though far distant
from Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was felt in every part of
the city.[1] In the Frederick Street the houses shook as if from an
earthquake, and countless panes of glass were shattered.

With darkened brow and a burst of anger did General von Tottleben
receive the news that the powder-mills had blown up, and fifty
Cossacks had lost their lives thereby. He mourned for the unfortunate
Cossacks and his poor serf, Ivan Petrowitsch. Still more did he lament
that it was now impossible to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. But
it was not his fault that the commands of his empress could not be
executed. The Russians had shot away all their powder, and the stock
in the powder-mills having been destroyed, there was none left to
carry into execution this grand undertaking.

[Footnote 1: