ne dared to approach them, for the walls
of the building were already bulging outwards. One man was half covered
with a sheet which was black, and his bare limbs were black with smoke.
All the hair was burnt from his head and face. He stood for a moment in
the doorway--a sight never to be forgotten--and then fell headlong down
the steps, where he lay motionless. Some one in the crowd laughed--a
high cackle which was heard above the roar of the fire and the deafening
chorus of burning timbers.

Barlasch passed on, following some officers who were leading their
horses towards the Kremlin. The streets were full of soldiers carrying
burdens, and staggering beneath the weight of their spoil. Many were
wearing priceless fur cloaks, and others walked in women's wraps of
sable and ermine. Some wore jewellery, such as necklaces, on their rough
uniforms, and bracelets round their sunburnt wrists. No one laughed
at them, but only glanced enviously at the pillage. All were in
deadly earnest, and none graver than those who had found drink and now
regretted that they had given way to the temptation; for their sober
comrades had outwitted them in finding treasure.

One man gravely wore a gilt coronet crammed over the crown of his shako.
He joined Barlasch, staggering along beside him.

"I come from the Cathedral," he explained, confidentially. "St. Michael
they call it. They said there was great treasure there hidden in the
cellars, but I only found a company of old kings in their coffins. We
stirred them up. They were quiet enough when we found them, under their
counterpanes of red velvet. We stirred them up with the bayonet, and the
dust got into our throats and choked us. Name of God, I am thirsty. You
have nothing in your bottle, comrade?"

"No."

Barlasch trudged on, all his possessions swinging and clanking together.
The confidential man turned towards him and lifted his water-bottle,
weighed it, and found it wanting.

"Name of a name, of a name, of a name," he muttered, walking on. "Yes,
there was nothing there. Even the silver plates on the coffins with the
names of those gentlemen were no thicker than a sword. But I found a
crown in the church itself. I borrowed it from St. Michael. He had a
sword in his hand, but he did not strike. No. And there was only tinsel
on the hilt. No jewels."

He walked on in silence for a few minutes, coughing out the smoke and
dust from his lungs. It was almost dark, but the whole city wa