Alba

A swi;-l of snow from the moivntain sida bliuded the eyes of the convicta, and they wearily begged to be allowed to rest, but were told roughly to push on. Bagged and worn, the poor women. who had left home and country to follow their exiled husbands, hugged puny, crying babes to their chilled bosonis and dragged on resolutely. A pitiful sight, truly ! Men and women, niany of them reared in luxury, were now forced to inarch day aftor day in the most inclemeut weather, with scant clothing and only the poorest foods - a black bread made from the sweepings of milis. Even pebbles and other refuse fornied the greater part of the ingredients. With this bread they were allowed a cupf ui of water. That was all ! One of the convicts, a lad of 17, whose handsomo face was smirched with blood from a wound on his broad forehead, caused by a blow from the fist of one of the goards, leaued wearily on the "varnak" on his left, to whom he was chained. The chain depending from his right hand and attached to his foot seemed unusually heavy, for he was weak from loss of blood, but a kick from the guard nearest him forced him to make a desuérate fort to push on. His glossy black hair feil in niatted locks over his brow. Doubtless his rank had induced the authorities to shpw hint soine marks of favor, for he was more warmly ciad than his fellow convicts, and his head hadnot been shaven. His face gleamed pale in the sun's ra37s, but it aroused no pity in the hearts of the inhuman guards. Ivan Smoloff, the youngest convict in this detachment, was a descendant of a royal family of Poland, now under the stem despotisin of Russia. He had attempted with a small band of followers to defend his country against the Russian forces, but the courage of his countrymen soon weakened, and after the burning of Warsaw they gave tip all hope. The emperor, fearing another outbreak frorn this fiery young nobleman, ordered his arrest and his exile to Siberia. Hearing of this, young Smoloff escaped to Germany, wandering over the continent for eight weary weeks, only to be captnred at last and exiled. No farewell word with mother, sisters or sweetheart; no last look at his oíd heme. Hurried ofï like a common criminal - for defending his country! "I cannot go farther." These words force themselves to his lips, and he sinks down, dragging his comrade with him. The guards swear at him, kick him, and finally order him to be stripped and beaten. The women shriek with terror and cover their eyes, but the sounds of the lasb ring in their, ears, and long after the tortnred youth's lips cease to move they can hear his piteous crie3. At last the quivering flesh is hastily covered with the coarse clothing, and he is chained again and told to move on. "You have a knife on your watch chain; sever the veins in your wrist and put an end to your sufferings," whispers the convict on his right. "I cannot," he answers feebly. "I cannot take my own life." "Better to be dead than suiïer this living death! Give me the knife; I will soon put an end to my misery." Smoloff detaches the tiny knife and gives it to the half maddened creature, who surreptitiously severs an artery in his wrist and bravely bears up until forced to fall from exhaustion. The order is given to fire, and all is over. Another convict is chained to Smoloff, and they move on. Ivan Smoloff envied the dead "varnak" and silently prayed for death. It was well nigh impossible to add "if it be thy will." There was no escape but by death. He had thought of inany ways. Even if he could elude the vigüance of the guarda he dared not hope to get out of the country, for the natives were paid 3 rubíes a head for every "varnak." At Tiumen the convicts were crówded into a barge and carried across the Obi. As they neared Tornolsk, Smoloff was suffering excruciating pain, and in a frenzied moment twisted the chain which bound him to the next "varnak" and ran a few paces. The cold air blew his hair from his forehead and sent the young blood coursing through bis body. He was free, if only for one moment! Running with all the strength he could command, he strained his ear to catch the order to fire. "One, two, three - fire!" Six shots rang out on the wintry air. Then three more were dispatched at the prostrate body. One guard went up and kicked the stiffening form outlined on the gnow. "Right about! March!" And they were gone. Night feil, and the stars came out one by one and blinked at the prostrate figure lying so still and cold, with the lifeblood crimsoning the snow, and then beckoned the nioon to sec the pitiful sight. ■## Alba Seuref , priiicess of Arnak, was considered proud and cold by strangers, but they little knew the tenderness oí the young princess' heart. Pledged from childhood to Ivan Sraoloff, only son ol the royal house of Poland, she had lavished all her young love on her future lord. When the news of his banishment reached her, she did not faint as his mother did. They were at a brilliant ball. The order was immediately given to drive home. Then with pale lips and white, drawn face Alba sat down beside her fire and tried to devise some means of escape for her lover. All night long she paced her room thinking, thinking, thinking! She must do something. Six o'clock struck, and still no plan was made by which she could help him. Sinking on her knees she prayed for help. The servant, entering an hour later, fonnd her asleep. She seemed dazed when awakened. Then she said: "Teil my maid I wish to see her." When the maid carne, she ordered her wraps brought. "But your ladythip will cl.ange her dress?" No, there was no time to lose. Already much had been wasted. Hastily 1 ping the fur inantle over her ball dress, which she had not yet removed, Alba filled her purse with money, and bidding the maid teil no one where she had gone she left the house. Making her way alone to St. Petersburg, regardless of impudent glances from travelers, she thought only of Ivan, who was going farther from her every moment. It was a dull, cold morning when she reached the city. Snow was falling in great flakes. The princess drove to the palace, but was refused admission when she told her errand, as they compelled her to do. For hours she wandered aimlessly through the streets, attracting much attention by her rich attire. At last, weary and heartsick, she entered a church to say a prayer for her hapless lover. As she left the edifice she was startled by the tramp of soldiers. It was the emperor's escort. They were passing up the street in the direction of the palace, the emperor bowing rfght and left to the crowds of people on the sidewalks. Pushing through the crowd she reached his carriage and implored him to save her lover. He scarcely heard her, and torning to the soldiers demanded the cause of the disrurbance. They rudely forced her back, and the carriage moved on slowly. But she was not to be repulsed without another effort, and again making her way i the side of the carriage she repeated her earnest appeal. The emperor requested the soldiers to bring the rnaiden closer. With downcast eyes and cheeks flushing hotly she told of her love for the exiled nobleman, and again implored his excellency to pardon him. "Never will I pardon that rash boy. Go to your lover and starre with him in the mines." The royal party moved on, the soldiers jostling her roughly as they passed. She stood but a moment gazing after them with horror stricken eyes. Gro to him? Yes, she would and stay by his side. The train seemed to drag along, but at last she reached Moscow. Detennined not to leave a stone unturned, she called on the metropolitan of Moscow. As bis eminence appeared, attired in a brown moire antique robe glittering with jewels and wearing the white crape hat of a metropolitan, with diamond cross in front, she forgot her rank, and falling on her knees at his f eet she kissed the hem of his robe. In passionate tones she begged him to use his influence with the emperor to have her lover pardoned. "My child, it is utterly impossible. If it were any one but Smoloff , there might be hope, but I can give you none. The emperor will never pardon him." He could but pity her as sho left the room with a dazed look on her sweet face. She must go to her lover. The kind oíd man procurred a passport for her. and she was enabled to cross tho border. How slowly the train creptl She sat with pale face pressed against the window, watching the snow capped mountains. After crossing the Obi at day break she was compelled to walk for miles through the blinding snow, often falling on the rough stones, but bravely trying to keep up her courage for Ivan's sake. Gusts of snow blew in her face, stinginglike lashes, and sornetimes the wind forced her back, and she stood still. Her clothes were tattered and soiled when she reached Tobolsk.' Here she inquired how long it had been since the convicts had passed. "Three days ago," the station guard answered. "Was- Ivan Smoloff with them?" she asked. "No, he died just before he reached there. He was shot." "Shot!" How the word rang in her ears! How strange everything looked! The gloomy station, the grinning, evil faces of the guards as they leered at her. She noticed even the cut of their whiskers and the dirty bulletin on the wall announcing the number of convicts that had passed there that year. One of the guards attempted to kiss her, but with fiercely gleaming eyes she pushed him roughly aside and bounded like a deer out of the door. She forgot her sufferings. Only to get away from those cruel men, to get beyond reach of their jeers and cruel words. "He is dead," she murmured to herself again and again. For days she retraced her steps, scarcely knowing where she was going. Sometimes rough men stared at her, but the look of absolute misery in her face servedas an armor to protect her, for they only stared and passed on. Once a Tartar man who lcoked at her with his krndly black eyes, thinking she was but a child, picked her up in his arms and carried her a long distance. They are very strong, those Tártara, who inhabit this part of Siberia. She could not understand his language, but knew he was trying to speak kindly to her. His swarthy skin, black hair and higl hük bones contrasted oddly with bei pale face and sun kissed hair. Hf doffed his small embroidered sknll cijas lie left her at the door of his cabin and shook his head when she slippecl some rubíes into his hand. It was night when she reached Tiutnen and found shelter in a miserable inn. As she sat near the fire in the smoky room she attracted the attention of an old man, who addressed her in Polish. "Are you in trouble?" he asked. She was such a child in spite of the care in her face! 'Yes," she replied wearily. "lam a pardoned exile f rom Obdorsk. I was sent there for drunkenness. I have suffered too." His worn, attenuated frame and sunken eyes seemed to echo his words. "Did you ever see any-of the political exiles?" she asked eagerly. "Yes. I met some at Tobolsk. From there they go to the Trans-Baikal district." "How long were you there?" She searched his face with her restless eyes to see if she could read there any sign of his having seen her lover. "Five years!" He wondered that she expressed no sorrow. It was a long time to spend in that godforsaken country, but she was saying to herself, "I might have known he had never seen Ivan." Still something prompted her to teil him. Her heart was aching for some one to advise her. Merely telling our troubles sometimes lightens them. "I had a lover who was exiled. So haudsome and brave. But he was shot near Tobolsk." ■'Near Tobolsk? How long ago?"' "Sis days."' "Was he dark, with eyes like a Tartar?" "Yes. His eyes were like midnight ekies, with twinkling stars shining through." She seems paralyzed from cold and fatigue and wonders vaguely how he knows that Ivan's eyes were dark. Is he sane? What does he mean? He is saying that he has seen Ivan! It was only three days ago! Mother of God, is it true? No, she must be dreaming! "Your lover is living," he repeats. "I saw him at Berezov three days ago. He was trying to reaeh the coast, expecting to take a steamer for America." It is long before he can make her understand, but he tells her again and again. She starts hastily to her feet. "I will go to him," she whispers, and although he insists that she must wait until moming she shakes her head. He gives her some advice as to the route, and goes inany versts with her, in spite of his feebleness. He can scarcely keep up with her. She seems to have acquired new energy and almost runs. At daybreak they find a boatman, who rows her some distance, the old man lea ving her at the river bank. "God speed you!" he said, but she thinks only of reaching Ivan, and scarcely looks at the pathetic figure waving his tp.ttered hat at her from the shore. Her hands were clasped in her lap. Something like a smile hovered round her niouth. Onoe when they were very near the shore some women carne down to the water's edge with some red eyed children. They peered at her curiously, and one of them tossed a piece of bread to her. They thought she was a beggar, her clothes were so ragged, and her golden hair was so rongh. She dares not inquire for Ivan at Berezov, but silently searches for him. She f eels satisfied at last that he has tef t the village. and finding a boafman to take her to Obdorsk gives him more gold than he has seen for many a day. How her head throbs, and the trees seem to be dancing before her e3-es. Strange to say, they are very kind to her at the quiet Obdorsk inn- she seeks the most unpretentious one. They nurse her with rough tenderness for days. She talks incessantly of Ivan, but herlanguage is strange to them, and they do not understand. In her delirium she rises from her bed and wanders along the coast, calling feebly for Ivan, sinking down in the sand at last from weakness. When she awakens, she finds Ivan's arms around her. "Alba, what are you doing Jiere?" She tells him how she has searched for him. "And you did this for me? My darling! How can I love you enough! Off there with the convicts I thought of you many times and longed for one love look from your blue eyes, but I never expected to see them again. And lying in the snow, when they left me for dead, I, too, thought for a time that death was very near and I should never again feel your kiss on my lips." Then he told her how after the train had left him he had revived, as it would seem, by a miracle, and had dragged himself to a hut, where he was nursed until he was able to keep on. Even now his wounds were not entirely healed. The ships passing looked like great white birds in the distance. One stopped. It was only a freight ship going to Alaska, but they kindly allowed the f ugitives to board her, and as they steamed away from the country that they feared and hated they feit a load lifted from their weary, burdened hearts. It was not until long afterward, in their peaceful American home, that Alba heard the full story of Ivan's terrible