y way to them.

"Well done, Mishka,--for it was thou!" exclaimed Loris. "How was it
done?"

"_Pouf_, it was but a toy," grunted Mishka. "I brought it in my
pocket,--on chance; such things are useful at times. If it had been
a real bomb, we should all have entered Heaven--or hell--together."

"Get to the steps; they are coming back," cried Loris.

He was right. A section of the crowd turned, and made an ugly rush, only
to halt in confusion as they found themselves confronted by levelled
revolvers, held by four men in uniform.

"Be off," Loris shouted. There was no anger in his voice; he spoke as
sternly and dictatorially as one speaks to a fractious child. "You have
done enough mischief for one night,--and the punishment is still to
come. Back, I say! Go home, and see that you do no more evil."

He strode towards them, and they gave back before him.

"Jesu! It is the archangel Michel! Ah, but we have sinned, indeed," a
woman wailed hysterically. The cry was caught up, echoed in awestruck
murmurs; and the whole lot of them quickened their flight, as we marched
on their heels.

"A compliment to you, my Mishka,--you and your toy bomb; somewhat more
like Jove and his thunderbolts though, eh?" said Loris, and I saw his
eyes gleam for a moment with a flash of the quaint humor that cropped up
in him at the most unexpected moments. "It was a good thought, for it
achieved much, at very little cost. But these poor fools! When will they
learn wisdom?"

We stood still, waiting for a brief space, to see if the mob would
return. But the noise receded,--the worst was over; though the baleful
glare of the burning houses waxed ever brighter, revealing all the
horrors of that stricken town.

With a sigh Loris thrust his revolver back into his belt,--none of us
had fired a shot,--and strode back to the door of the synagogue.

From within we could hear, now that the din had ceased, the wailing of
frightened children, the weeping of women.

Loris drew his revolver again and beat on the door with the butt.

"Open within there!" he cried. "All is safe, and we are friends."

"Who are you? Give the name, or the word," came the answer, in a woman's
voice; a voice that I knew well.

"Open, Anna; _a la vie et a la mort_!" he called.

A queer dizziness seized me as I listened. She was within, then; in
another minute I should meet her. But how could I hope that she would
have a word, a glance, to spare for me, when _he_ was there.