es, and the gnashing of doutares.

Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient,
after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets--red, green, and blue--so
that the groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks.
In some respects, this performance recalled the military dance of
the ancients, in the midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance
was rendered yet more fantastic by the colored fire, which wound,
serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses seemed to be embroidered
with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of sparks, whose infinite
combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.

Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly
hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so
far, yet Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the
head, which at home, between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine
would have said--"Very fair, very fair."

Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were
extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The
ceremony was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau, which a
few instants before had been so brilliantly illuminated.

On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.

"Blount," said Alcide to his companion, "are you going to see the end of
all this?"

"No, that I am not," replied Blount.

"The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not very eager for the
details of an execution a la mode Tartare?"

"No more than your cousin!"

"Poor fellow!" added Alcide, as he watched Michael. "That valiant
soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!"

"Can we do nothing to save him?" said Blount.

"Nothing!"

The reporters recalled Michael's generous conduct towards them; they
knew now through what trials he must have passed, ever obedient to his
duty; and in the midst of these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they
could do nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the
torture reserved for the unfortunate man, they returned to the town.
An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk, for it was among
the Russians that they intended to follow what Alcide called, by
anticipation, "the campaign of revenge."

Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the Emir's
haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of intense
scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogare