e of the artilleryman, which was faintly lighted up by the
feeble gleam of the candle. Suddenly, with a piercing cry, he lifted
himself on his bed, as if by some superhuman force: his hair stood
upright, his whole body shook with a fevered trembling, his hand seemed
endeavouring to push something from him, an ineffable horror was
expressed on his countenance.... "Your name!" he cried at length,
addressing the artilleryman. "Who are thou, stranger from the grave?"

"I am Verkhoffsky?" ... answered the young artilleryman. This was a shot
that went straight to the heart of the prisoner. The ligature on the
principal artery gave way from a rush of blood, which poured through the
bandages. Yet a few struggles, yet the throat-rattle, and the leaden
hand of death choked the wounded man's last sigh, imprinted on his brow
the seal of the last grief; gathering whole years of repentance into one
rapid moment, in which the soul, tearing itself from the body, fears
equally the tortures of life and of nothingness, feels at once all the
gnawing of the past and all the agony of the future. Terrible was it to
look on the convulsed face of the dead. "He surely must have been a
great sinner," said Verkhoffsky, in a low voice to the general's
interpreter, who stood near him, and he shuddered involuntarily.

"A great villain," rejoined the interpreter: "it appears to me he was a
Russian deserter. I never met with a mountaineer who spoke Russian so
correctly as this prisoner. Let me look at his arms. We may, perhaps,
find some marks on them." With these words he unsheathed, with a look of
curiosity, the dagger which had been taken from the dead man, and
bringing it to the lantern, deciphered and translated the following
inscription:--

"Be slow to offend--swift to revenge!"

"Quite a robber's rule," said Verkhoffsky; "my poor brother Evstafli!
you fell a victim to such a fanatic principle as this!"

The eyes of the good youth filled with tears.... "Is there not something
else?" he asked.

"This is apparently the slain man's name," replied the interpreter.

"It is: Ammalat Bek!"

* * * * *

MR BAILEY'S REPLY TO AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

We have just been favoured with a pamphlet from Mr Bailey, entitled "A
Letter to a Philosopher, in Reply to some Recent Attempts to Vindicate
Berkeley's Theory of Vision, and in further Elucidation of its
Unsoundness." Our article on Mr Bailey's