an altered look, and a tone that froze the poor girl's blood.

In every antechamber and chancery office, Duna bore the reputation of a girl of spirit. She was no easy conquest. Many a presumptuous clerk had felt the print of her nails in his face to that degree that he was not likely to forget it, though he should live to be a master in chancery. Duna, in fact, did honour to the virtue of St. Petersburg. But a bashful provincial chancery clerk, with his inky fingers, is a trifle to a girl who has been brought up in the best milliner's shop in the Nevska Perspective; an unshaved, broad-shouldered, ugly vagabond, in a frieze cloak, with red mustaches and a violet nose, is quite a different sort of thing, and enough to frighten any body. Duna began to cry.

"Don't cry, my little duck! I won't do you any harm," he said in a softer tone, as he drew near her. Now, this softer tone alarmed her even more, and she involuntarily stretched out her arms to keep him off.

"Who are you, I say?" she cried, in despair, but with an assumption of courage, with a fire, that was gradually extinguished by her gushing tears, "You shall tell me on the spot who you are. "Who I am?"

"Yes, who are you? Your calling? your

name?"

"I am a thief."

"A thief!" she echoed falteringly, turning as white as snow.

"I am a thief by name, and a robber by station," he said with a smile, and looking tenderly into her blue eyes; but the smile on his face resembled the ghastly glimmering of the moon upon the foul waters of the morass. This is the approved style in robber-tales, so you see there was no joke in the matter; after such a phrase all sorts of horrors may be expected. Duna was terrified (not at the phrase, but at the smile), and a cold tremour ran through her frame; but seeing that her visiter was making sport of her uneasiness, she rallied herself a little, and cried out hurriedly, but with a tremulous voice, "A robber? Poh! what a horrid life."

Every man to his calling. I had another once; but now, I say, my pretty lass, give me something to eat. I have not put a bit in my mouth these three days. We will have breakfast together, and then-"

With a sudden gesture he threw his arm round her neck to kiss her. The sight of his bristly chin and formidable mustaches charging so fiercely upon her, the sight of his ugly red nose that nearly touched her cheek, put her in a downright passion; and with the strength that makes heroes of us in moments of extreme peril, she pushed the audacious fellow back.

"Hands off, if you please, Mr. Robber! I'd thank you not to frighten me for nothing. I know what you are come for."

"You know, do you? Well, what is it then ?"

"Oh! I know very well; but allow me to tell you it is a very great shame. I will have you up for it. Give me back the key this moment, and be off."

"Some breakfast," growled the stranger.

"I have no breakfast for you; there is nothing to eat in the whole house. Go breakfast in the public-house if you have a mind. By the same token you smell of brandy enough to knock one backwards; I dare say you have made a very good breakfast already."

"Do

"What! nothing to eat?" he muttered, knitting his brow, and bending a piercing glance on the girl as he put his right hand down towards his boot. you see this?" said he, showing her a broad bladed knife with small black speckles, traces of recently shed blood he had somewhere hastily wiped off on the grass. "I have no time to joke with you."

Poor Duna stared with open eyes, and seemed petrified by his basilisk glances. "Breakfast!" he shouted. "Immediately!"

"Be quick; I have no time to lose."

"Take whatever you please; there is some roast meat of yesterday in the cupboard, and some brandy."

"Show me into the parlour, put every thing you have got on the table, and stir yourself."

Pale and bewildered, she tottered to the cupboard in the antechamber. He stuck the knife in his boot, and followed her step by step. Bread, brandy, salt, butter, cheese, and cold roast veal, were placed on the same table where the proprietors of the house had recently breakfasted, before setting off for the town. He seated himself, seized Duna's arm, and forced her down beside him. "Well, I say," said he, bolting the fat veal with ravenous voracity, and squinting sideways at his companion, "I gave you a jolly start, didn't I?"

"I believe you did! I wonder who would not be frightened so?"

"You did wrong to stand out against me. If you had done what I wanted at once- -Your health. Drink a little drop to keep me company."

"I never touch brandy."

"That's a lie," he said, with his mouthful, and scowling on her, "I know your name is Avdotya Yeremeyevna."

"Then why do you ask, if you know ?"

"To try your candour. Capital brandy to be sure; is there any more of it ?"

"There is another bottle in the cupboard."
"Have the goodness to bring it here."
"There it is."

"Thank you. By your leave I'll give you à kiss for it."

Duna no longer dared to resist; she submitted with the best grace she could to the rude kiss, contenting herself with wiping the place where

his sharp beard had scratched her soft skin till it almost bled.

"To let you see that I am up to a thing or two," he went on, after he had gulped his third glass of brandy, "I will tell you, that a clerk brought your master 1,500 rubles yesterday from Ivanovitch F whose case was brought last week before the district court. Is not that true?" May be so."

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ney ?"

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Really I do not know."

took an iron instrument out of his pocket, and immediately began to use it upon the lock. Duna

"What is your pleasure?"

"I wish, my love, you would be sociable." Poor Duna was forced to make a show of being sociable. The guest was in the happiest humour; he laughed and joked with her. Duna gradually forgot her terrors, grew bolder, defended herself becomingly, nay laughed aloud, and endeavoured to disguise her intense anxiety under a show of cheerfulness, whilst in secret she prayed fervently to heaven that the red-nosed guest might soon eat and drink his fill, and take his leave, and the incomparable Ivan might soon arrive to indemnify her sensitive heart for this fearful torment.

Alas! Ivan, who had got leave of the governor, left the town, and sped with hasty steps, and with a heart brimful of tenderness and hope, to meet her. He walked not, he flew. Cupid had fastened his own wings to his boots. He flew like an arrow. But on his way lay a brandy shop; there is no road without them. He would have flown by it; but in the brandy shop were his acquaintances, his beloved friends. He made a halt with them for a moment, only a moment, and got tipsy with them. It happened quite against his will; he was even in despair at it. Altogether it was one of the most memorable victories ever achieved by Friendship over Love.

Meanwhile the ugly vagabond had emptied his sixth glass of brandy. At the seventh he grew pensive, pursed his brows, and bit his lips as if a pang shot through his vitals; a dark shadow passed like a cloud over his countenance; suddenly he sprang from his seat, and without intending it, pushed so strongly against his companion, that she almost fell between his feet. He looked round uneasily, took the brandy-bottle, the bread, and a piece of meat, from the table, put them all into the fathomless pockets of his cloak, and said, "Thank you for bread and salt-for your hospitality. Gaurila Michailovitch keeps his money in this secretary, eh? Why don't you speak? You see I am not such a bad fellow as you thought at first, my pretty ckick. I love you I love you so much.--Just tell me what sort of death you would like best to die? Shall I cut off your head, eh? Or would you rather I should hang you; from that beam for instance? Don't be afraid, only say what you would like best, charming Duna."

trembling in all her frame.

"Well, what is it then? Speak out Avdotya Yeremeyevna. Can't you make up your mind? Curse the lock. Avdotya Yeremeyevna, I wait your answer, my precious. This is the strongest lock I've seen this many a day. Will you speak or not?"

The secretary burst open with a crash.

"Whoo! what a lot of fine things! Bank notes, and ducats, and watches! They don't go : spoiled most likely. A ring! I don't want it. Oh, I'll take these diamonds. Are these all crumbs of office?"

Chatting in this fashion with himself and with Duna, he crammed his pockets with money, watches, and trinkets, and then turned abruptly to the half dead girl. Well, my love, your choice? Waste no time; but tell me, what death will you die ?" "Well, I'm sure! Ar'n't you ashamed, sir? It is a very ugly joke this."

"I am not joking at all, my sweet one." "What have I done to you? You have taken whatever you pleased; I did not hinder you."

"That's very true; but do you see, I can't abide leaving eyewitnesses behind me: I wash my hands of them by all means. With others I don't stand on ceremony; but as you, my love, are such a nice, good-natured, amiable little dear, I will give you your choice of death. I love politeness: I too have been brought up in St. Petersburg-"

Still she would not believe that he was in earnest.

"Now then, let's have it at once; I have no time to lose. Let us put compliments aside. I am extremely sorry, but you must die by my hand. I am not going to be such a fool as to let you live, to tell what sort of moustachios, eyes, nose, clothes, &c., I have got-what I did here, and which way I went. Now, Avdotya Yeremeyevna, answer quickly."

Every word of her cold-blooded torturer was a dagger-stroke to her: her whole blood, all the warm current of her life, curdled back upon her heart; her limbs grew icy cold, and floods of tears poured over her inanimate face. She tottered and fell to the floor. In her fall she caught the robber's foot, and kissed it. "Have mercy on me!" she shrieked. "Oh, spare my life, I implore you! I swear to you before the Holy Virgin, I will not

THE HISTORY OF A PICTURE.

Or all the towns in Estramadura, there is none so beautiful as Placentia; and in no part of Spain have the Moors left so many striking monuments of their wonderful and fantastic architecture. Even at this period, so far distant from its days of glory, travellers pause in their way through it, in order to consider, with feelings of admiration, the crooked streets formed by a thousand graceful little palaces, whose delicate proportions and fantastic decorations give them more the air of fairy edifices, raised by the caprice of an Ariel, than human dwellings, built by the hands of common mortals.

If, even in our days, Placentia still retains so much of her youthful beauty, how much more rich in elegance must she have been to the eye of the wanderer of the sixteenth century! How great must have been the impression made by it upon the ardent and poetic imagination of a young lad, who stood one evening before the church, and who never in his whole life had seen, in fact, of architecture any thing more magnificent than the church of the town of Pilar, and the poor cottages clustered round it! Surprised, delighted, affected even to tears, he walked from portico to portico, clasping his hands, unclasping them, elevating them up to heaven, and giving vent to all those earnest expressions with which the Spaniards call to their aid the sympathies of the entire population of paradise.

"Holy Mother of God! Blessed St. Joseph!" said he in his ecstacy of admiration, "what wonders are these! How beautiful! Good St. Estebaro, my patron! what a noble palace! Holy St. John, what a beautiful church! There's a porch worthy of paradise! there's a church fit to say mass in in heaven! Oh, how divinely beautiful!"

He, upon whose ardent imagination the buildings of Placentia had produced such an effect, and forced so many exclamations, was a young lad about fifteen or sixteen years of age, whose features expressed the noble, but bold beauty of the Spanish mountaineer; tall, agile, slender, but well-built; his movements were accompanied by that natural grace which only springs from a rich organisation, matured by a life of activity and sobriety. He was clad in the simple costume of an Andalusian peasant, and his whole baggage consisted of a small woollen sack, very lightly furnished, though it contained his wardrobe and his provisions.

When the young traveller had satisfied his eager curiosity, when he had seen, examined, and admired all around him, he seated himself quietly upon the steps of a monastery, and began to make his preparations for dinner. Throwing his sack from his shoulders, he drew from it a loaf of coarse rye bread, which, in order to render somewhat relishing, he rubbed all over with one of those large onions which are to this day a favourite dish with the Spaniards. This operation concluded, he divided his loaf into two parts, put one half into his sack, and set to work upon the other with such right good.

will and steady perseverance, that he was soon obliged to attack the reserve, which he had deposited in the sack for his supper. He was so intently absorbed by his occupation, that he did not remark the approach of another traveller, a young man of some four or five and twenty years of age, whose worn-out accoutrements could not disfigure a very fine person, till roused by a loud shout of laughter, provoked, as it appeared, in the new comer, by the boy's vigorous appetite. The latter turned his head, half angrily, towards the stranger, but met a look of such cordial good will-such frank and honest good humour, that instead of an affront, he kindly offered the stranger half of the last half of his highly seasoned brown loaf, which the other considered some time with a look of comic gravity before he uttered a word by way of reply.

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you a one.

My boy," said he, at length, half laughing, you have a tolerable appetite of your own; but do not remember that others have as good may What should I do with that mouthful of black bread, which would not quiet the groans of my stomach, and from which would part you with regret :-but no matter-hospitality is an excellent thing: you invited me to your banquet; I invite you now to mine; for I am inclined to believe that, notwithstanding the hearty meal which you have just disposed of, you have still a corner left for a slice of this pie."

The stranger drew from his wallet a most glorious pie, whose gold-tinted crust brought back the boy's scarcely quieted hunger, and he devoured it with his eyes, while the other loosened from his belt a bladder swollen and rounded by that delicious Valde-Penas, which, at this moment, it is so much the fashion to drink in France. The pie was then scrupulously divided into two equal parts, and each of them proceeded to business; the young man as if he had not eaten for a week-the boy, as if he had not five minutes before devoured a loaf of three pounds weight at least. Neither was the bladder forgotten; it received so many caresses from the two new friends, that its volume began to diminish, and their conversation was growing animated and confidential, when suddenly the door of the convent was opened violently, and a man completely intoxicated rolled forward, closely followed by a monk, who shovelled him out of the convent with as little ceremony as possible.

"Hence, filthy drunkard," said the indignant father, "how dare you present yourself drunk in this place, without regard to its sanctity, or the importance of the work committed to your hand? Hence! degraded, filthy, miserable swine-hence, I say! and never again appear before me, or dread the consequences of my anger. Beast, beast, what will become of our preparations for to-morrow? O, ha! you there!—you fellows on the steps," continued the monk, throwing out upon the two young men the remains of the anger which had been kindled by the drunkard. "What! cannot you dine elsewhere? Are the steps of this monastery made to

serve the purposes of refectory to such fellows as you?"

"Do not be angry, good father," replied the boy with respectful gentleness, while his companion hastened to clear away the remains of the feast, already threatened by the foot of the monk; "do not be angry with us, but pardon the error if we have done wrong; but we thought the good monks who preach charity would not reprove us for sitting down at their door to repose our limbs, and dine a little more at our ease."

"Thou speakest boldly, lad," replied the monk, his ill humour already softened by the gentle tone and frank manners of the boy; "what is thy

name?"

"Esteban, father—and

?" yours

The monk looked surprised at the familiarity of this question, and hesitated an instant, as if debating within himself whether he should reply or not; at length, after a pause, he replied,

"I am called the Father Arsenio ;-but thou hast only told me thy christian name; hast thou no family appellation ?"

"I have; but that is a secret." "A secret!-and why?"

"Because I have run away from my home; and if I were to tell you my name, father, you might think it a duty to betray me to those who, in all probability, will set out in pursuit of me."

"Run away from your father's house!" observed the monk, gravely; "that is very wrong young man. What could induce you to commit such an imprudence?"

My earnest desire to see Velasquez, and, if possible, to get admitted among the number of his pupils."

"Velasquez!—you are then a painter?" demanded the monk, smiling.

"Yes," replied the lad with energy, indignant at the smile of mockery which he saw playing over the features of the monk; "yes, father, I am a painter. I am a pupil of Juan del Castello, my uncle. If he had still been living, I should now be happy under his protection, and not obliged to wander like a vagabond in search of another master; but Juan del Castello died, and when, in consequence, I was obliged to return to my father, whom I left a widower, I found him re-married to the most greedy, sordid, and unfeeling woman of all the noble Castiles. What think you, father, she sought to make of me-of me, a painter, idolising my art and making no mean advancement in it? a shoemaker's apprentice! Yes, father, yes, a shoemaker. My tears, my grief, my despair even failed to touch her. My father, good-natured, but feeble in character, consented to every thing she desired, and I was bound to the shoemaker. Despair gave me strength; I took my courage in both hands, and two days after, penniless, indeed, but free, I set out on my journey in search of the great Velasquez, and a few days more will bring me to his presence." "I have a strong inclination to try your skill," said the monk, who appeared to be greatly amused

by the boy's volubility and spirit. "I have need of an artist to replace yon drunkard, who is a disgrace to his noble art, and whom I have driven from the convent. If you can fulfil my wishes, if really you have sufficient talent to paint some three or four coats of arms, and a few particular ornaments, you will earn my thanks, and a piece of gold into the bargain. What say you? do you consent?"

"O yes, father, yes, most gladly; a piece of gold! it will enable me to finish my journey more quickly,for, to say the truth, my last maravedis was spent this morning to pay for the bread, which would have been all my dinner, if this kind-hearted young man had not shared his with me, which was infinitely better; therefore, with your permission, father, he will be my assistant in this affair; he shall grind my colours, and receive half the sum you promise me."

The monk turned to examine the companion of Esteban, whom, as he had not spoken, he had not hitherto remarked.

"If I do not mistake, young man," said he, addressing him, "you wear the dress of the redeemed captives, restored to liberty by the cares of the pious fathers of the Trinity?"

"Precisely so, father," replied the young man; "in fact, I have just arrived from Algiers, where, during three long years, I suffered all the bitterness of slavery. Heaven has finished my misery, and permitted me once more to return to my noble native land."

"And what was your profession before you fell into the hands of the barbarians?" demanded the monk.

"The military," replied the young man; “I was a soldier, father."

"Ah, ah! and do you intend to return to actual service?"

"Alas! no; I cannot: a carabine shot has disabled my arm, and rendered all military service impossible."

"What will you do in future? What profession will you adopt?"

"That of poet and romance writer."

"Poet and romance writer!" exclaimed the monk, almost laughing aloud. "Why I have then lighted upon a whole caravan of artists:—so much the bet ter. I am glad of it, for I can employ you also. While your companion paints the blazonry, you shall compose devices for them, and also receive a piece of gold for your service. Do you consent to this arrangement?"

"Most joyfully."

"To work, then, immediately; go in, and lose no time, for all the preparations must be completed by twelve o'clock to-morrow.' So saying, the monk led the way into the choir of the church, where great preparations were making for a funeral ceremony. The church was hung with black cloth, covered with silver tears; a thousand large candelabres arose proudly in all parts of it, containing innumerable tapers, which were to reflect a blaze of light upon a magnificent canopied bier which stood

say a syllable to any one. May I never see heaven, if I do! For the sake of the blessed St Nicholas have compassion upon me! I will pray all my life for you, as for my own father, my brother-"

The inexorable miscreant shook her off from his foot, kicking her in the breast. In vain she raised her imploring looks and arms towards him; in vain she sought to touch his stony heart with all that intense despair-and the clinging love for a youthful, joyous existence-could breathe into the words, the voice, and the tears of a helpless being. The villain, harder than granite, grew every moment more cruel and savage. Raging with impatience, he caught her by the hair, forced back her head, drew his knife from his boot, and was about to plunge it in her throat. "Oh, oh! for the love of heaven!" sobbed the unfortunate girl, beside herself at the sight of the terrible knife; hang me!-hang me! No bloody death! Mercy!-mercy! Hang me rather!" "Ay, ay," he said, with a hideous grin: "so you can speak at last. Why did you not say so at once. I have lost a deal of time already; still I can't refuse you the favour; you are such a nice girl! Don't be afraid, Duna! You shall die in the pleasantest manner. It is an ugly death that of the knife. If I might choose myself, I would rather be hanged than knouted, when my time

comes.

We will look about for a cord." The wretched girl, powerless in mind and body through terror, cold as ice, trembling and almost lifeless, submitted to all his commands. The rope was soon found, and the murderer returned with his victim to the same room where the remains of the breakfast still stood upon the table. He threatened to kill her instantly if she stirred from the spot where she stood-placed a chair on the table-and sprang nimbly upon it. Having fastened the rope round the beam, he drew the knife from his boot, cut off the projecting part of the rope, stuck the knife into the beam, and set about making a double running knot on the rope. Duna stood motionless in the middle of the room: heat and cold rushed alternately through her frame; sparks of fire danced before her eyes; she saw nothing; she did nothing but pray, confess her sins, commend herself to all the saints, and mentally bid farewell to all that was dear to her in life.

"Presently, presently, my precious!" said the murderer, going on with his work, "you shall see how nicely I will hang you. I am not a new hand at the job. Do you see now, all is ready, only we must try whether the rope is strong enough. I would not for the world you should fall to the ground and break your ribs. It is for your interest and my own that- -Draw the chair away from under my feet."

Duna unconsciously went up to the table, and drew the chair; whilst the robber held the rope away fast in both hands, having slipped it over one arm up to the elbow, to convince himself of its strength by swinging on it with the whole weight of his body.

"Push the table aside." Duna did so.

:

"All right it is a capital rope; it would bear more than you-you and me together."

He now let go the rope, intending to jump to the ground. Apparently it was his purpose to startle the poor girl by the bold and sudden leap; but the noose intended for her, gliding along his arm, caught him fast by the wrist. Duna's executioner had, in fact, hanged himself by the hand.

Though experiencing the most acute pain, he wished to conceal his critical position from the girl, that she might not avail herself of it to escape. He tried to reach the imprisoned hand with his left; but the weight of his body prevented his bringing his shoulders parallel. Suddenly he began to whirl and fling himself wildly through the air, hoping the rope would snap: but in vain! If he had but the knife in his boot, he might have severed it, or, at the worst, have cut off his hand, and saved himself by flight. But, unluckily for him, the knife was sticking in the beam. How was he to get at it?

He thought of one means-a desperate onethe last. He collected all his strength, to shake the knife out with a powerful spring. The effort failed.

The weight of his heavy frame dangling in the air by one hand only, his violent efforts, the pressure of the tight-drawn knot, occasioned the villain intense torture : the joints of his arms crackled and began to part; the blood oozed out under the rope from the lacerated skin, and trickled into the sleeve of his cloak; while that of the rest of his frame rushed from the extremities to his head. Every moment it seemed as if the hand would be torn off. He even wished that it might. His anxiety lest the people of the house should return; his dread of being taken in this predicament; impatience, rage; the thought of his misdeeds, of his punishment; all his guilty life; all this possessed his tumultuous imagination, and brought his dark soul to despair. Cold sweat broke from his forehead. In spite of his tiger-like endurance, a cry of agony burst, at last, from his iron bosom.

Duna, petrified, and thinking only of death, had hitherto looked on in idiotic indifference. For a long time she did not understand what he was doing, and made no attempt to understand it. True, she was still standing upright like a living thing, but living she was not. The involuntary cry of the murderer waked her, however, from her trance. She saw him bleeding, as if it were half a dream: she saw blood on the floor-a hideous gaping mouth, with great misshapen teeth, red fiery eyes starting from the socket; she read his anguish in his ghastly distorted features, and guessed at last what had happened. Hope animated her: she began to think of deliverance.

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Avdotya! push the table nearer," said the robber, in altered, but still harsh and commanding accents, that terrified her again, and compelled her to blind obedience. Once more she lost her presence