twenty in number. The Tchetchenians began to pull their guns from their covers, and divided themselves into two parties. One-half of them set off in chase of the two officers, who were already making what speed they could back to the fortress, and soon overtook them. One of the officers was pulled from his horse and hacked to pieces; the other was taken prisoner. Sodo, followed by Lyof Nikolayevitch, pushed off in another direction toward a Cossack picket that was posted at about a verst distant. Their pursuers were close upon them, and there was nothing before them but death or captivity, with its usual accompaniment, to be put into a pit neck high and left there to starve, for the mountaineers were noted for their cruel treatment of the unlucky wretches who fell into their hands. It was possible for Lyof Nikolayevitch to escape on his friend's swift-footed steed, but he would not abandon him. Sodo, like a true mountaineer, had not failed to bring his gun with him, but unfortunately it was unloaded. He none the less aimed at his pursuers, and with a wild cry of defiance made as if he were on the point of firing. To judge from what followed, we may presume it was their intention to take them both prisoners, in order that they might better revenge themselves on Sodo. At any rate they none of them fired. It was this alone that saved their lives. They managed to get within sight of the picket, whence the sharp-eyed sentry had from a distance seen the danger they were in, and instantly gave the alarm. The Cossacks soon turned out, and before long compelled the Tchetchenians to cease their pursuit.'

The style is perfectly simple and lucid; the pictures of life in the Tartar aul among the mountains are intensely vivid, painted with strong masterly touches; the heroism of the young officer in standing by his friend and fellow-captain is most affecting, and the reader will not soon forget the little black-eyed laughing maiden Dina, with the rubles jingling in her braided hair. She stands forth as one of the most fascinating of the author's creations, as the story itself is one that well deserves to be called classic.

A RUSSIAN PROPRIETOR

PRINCE

CHAPTER I

RINCE NEKHLIUDOF was nineteen years of age when, at the end of his third term at the university, he came to spend his summer vacation on his estate, and was alone there all summer.

In the autumn he wrote, in his unformed boyish hand, a letter to his aunt, the Countess Bieloretsky, who, according to his notion, was his best friend, and the most talented woman in the world. The letter was in French, and was to the following effect:

DEAR AUNT, I have adopted a resolution on which must depend the fate of my whole existence. I have left the university in order to devote myself to a country life, because I feel that I was born for it. For God's sake, dear aunt, don't make sport of me. You say that I am young. Perhaps I am still almost a child; but this does not prevent me from feeling sure of my vocation, from wishing to accomplish it successfully, and from loving it.

As I have already written you, I found our affairs in indescribable confusion. Wishing to bring order out of chaos, I made an investigation, and discovered that the principal trouble was due to the most wretched, miserable condition of the peasants, and that this trouble could be remedied only by work and patience.

If you could only see two of my peasants, David and Ivan, and the way they and their families live, I am convinced that one glance at these two unfortunates would do more to persuade you than all I can tell you in justification of my resolve. Is not my obligation sacred and clear, to labor for the welfare of these seven hundred human beings for whom I must be responsible to God? Would it not be a sin to leave them to the mercy of

I