asp the thought that a bullet had pierced him
ere his senses failed.

When he regained his consciousness, he found himself lying on the
trampled turf with his head resting on a saddle. His coat was
unbuttoned and a number of his comrades were busying themselves about
him. He felt no pain, only an inexpressible weariness and a strange,
almost indescribable feeling, something like an internal trickling,
which appeared to be rising into his throat and forced him to struggle
for breath like a drowning man.

"How do you feel, Prince?" asked the lieutenant-colonel, bending
anxiously over him.

"I feel," he answered softly, "as if I ought to shout: Long live the
king! Long live our native land!" Then, after a brief pause, he added
almost inaudibly, while a barely perceptible smile flickered over his
white lips: "But I certainly am not at a public meeting."

These were his last words.

[1] English translation.

THE ART OF GROWING OLD.

Baron Robert von Linden was standing between the panels of his triple
mirror. The sunlight of a bright May morning was streaming upon him
through the lofty window so brilliantly that it made the places which it
illumined almost transparent. He put his face very close to the crystal
surface, so that it nearly touched and he was obliged to hold his breath
in order not to dim it, examining his reflected image a long time, with a
scrutiny which at once seeks and fears discoveries, looked at himself in
front, then from the side, changed the light, sometimes bringing his face
under the full radiance of the sunshine, sometimes receiving it at
different angles or shading himself slightly with his hand. At last,
sighing heavily, he stepped back, laid the tortoise-shell comb and ivory
brush on the marble washstand, sank into the arm-chair standing in the
corner, and bowed his head on his breast, while his arms hung at full
length as if nerveless.

Alas! the hour when he made his morning toilet was no longer a happy one
for Baron Robert. He dreaded the inexorable mirror, and yet
self-torturing curiosity impelled him to inspect his face with the keen
observation of a Holbein. Not even the least deterioration in his
appearance escaped his search and scrutiny. He perceived and examined
all the ravages which life had made in his exterior: the lines crossing
the brow, the little wrinkles extending from the corners of the eyes
toward the temples, the deep ones, as well as those which