However, when I had completed my investigation of the inexplicable emblem which had so long occupied my thoughts, I commenced trying to decipher the letters above.

At first I could make nothing out of them, but by passing my hand carelessly along I ascertained that they were in the Russian character.

Evidently they were initials.

Fortunately, while at college I had gained a knowledge of the Russian alphabet, and though it was rather imperfect, I was prompted to make an attempt to discover the equivalent of the two letters in English.

The task occupied me a very long time, and after considerable patience and perseverance I found I had translated the initials, although they told me nothing.

The two letters cut in the stone above were “N.S.”

I stood motionless for a few minutes, almost unable to give credence to the solution of the puzzle; then went carefully over the two signs again.

No; I was not mistaken.

“N.S.,” I repeated to myself aloud, almost breathless with amazement, my heart beating quickly, and sounding distinctly in the tomb-like silence of my dungeon. “The initials of some unfortunate man who perhaps, like myself, was confined here for some crime he did not commit.”

Whose was the hand that traced the deadly sign, and the initials? This was the question I vainly asked myself.

“Perhaps the letters below will throw some light upon this ghastly secret,” I said aloud, as I commenced to feel the two characters underneath the design. They were well-shaped and deeply cut, so I had not so much difficulty as with those above.

“I may be about to solve the enigma of the seal,” I reflected, as, in intense excitement, I took one letter after the other and thought of its corresponding letter in English.

I soon deciphered them, and found the initials were “S.O.”

The discovery caused me much disappointment, for beyond the assumption that a certain person whose initials were N.S. had been imprisoned in the cell, together, perhaps, with a comrade whose initials were S.O., who had possibly sketched the obscure hieroglyphics, I was no nearer the solution of the device than before.

It might have been inscribed a dozen, perhaps a hundred, years ago—before the seal had become synonymous of death—for aught I knew.

So intent was I in endeavouring to feel other names or devices near this particular one that I failed to notice the opening of my cell door, and when I became aware of the lantern-light behind me I turned and saw a Cossack officer standing upon the threshold.

He stepped forward and was about to enter, but suddenly, as if on second thought, he drew back and pulled up the broad collar of his riding-coat about his neck, so as to partially hide his face before entering.

Advancing, and turning the lamplight full upon my face, he gazed into it fixedly for several seconds, his own countenance being concealed by the shadow. Then, without speaking, he went across the cell and commenced examining the wall, apparently to ascertain in what pursuit I was engaged when he entered.

He cast his eyes along the wall, when he suddenly gave vent to a low exclamation of profound surprise, not unmingled with horror, and holding his lantern on a level with the inscription, scrutinised it minutely for some minutes, at the same time muttering to himself.

From his movements, and the agitation which he strove to suppress, it was evident he, too, had made a startling discovery; and I stood wondering what there was about it that interested him so much.

He looked at me several times, and though his face was always in the shade I could see that in his eyes was a peculiar expression. Twice he returned and examined the inscription, as if to rivet it upon his memory and to satisfy himself he was not mistaken; then he turned, and, addressing me in French, said:

“Prisoner, prepare yourself. We start to-morrow.”

“To Siberia?” I asked.

“Yes; make the best of your last night’s rest,” he replied in a strange hoarse voice, and went out, leaving me again to my gloomy reflections.

For hours I sat, asking myself what this could mean. The initials, in conjunction with the seal, served to increase the mystery, and the agitation of the officer when his gaze fell upon it clearly showed the grim symbol was repulsive to him, although the cruel light in his eyes caused me to conjecture that it revealed to him some awful truth that had hitherto been hidden.

But why need I exercise my mind upon trying to solve this inscrutable problem, I thought, when on the morrow I should start upon my terrible journey to the grave?

Ay, what was the use?

Chapter Fourteen.

En Route for the Mines.

At last the day—or rather night—arrived, when the gates of the Citadel opened, allowing myself with thirty other prisoners to pass out upon the first stage of the weary two months’ tramp to that bourne whence few convicts ever return.

We were a sorry, smileless band of criminals of all classes, each dressed alike and bearing a number, our hands fastened behind our backs, and chained together in single file.

Slowly we passed through the great iron gates, and turning, crossed the Troitskoi Bridge, our escort of mounted Cossacks cracking their long whips, and with lanterns tied to their lance-points examining the road continually, in search of any letters which might be dropped. It was a weird, dismal procession, as we trudged on through the streets made sloppy by the melting snow, and the clanking of chains, the cracking of whips, the shouts of the soldiers, and the rumbling of the springless carts in the rear for those who might fall ill by the way, awoke the echoes of the silent thoroughfares.

A few belated pleasure-seekers, some in fancy dress, who were evidently returning from a ball, stopped to watch us pass, but no one was allowed to come near us, for the Cossacks warned them off.

In this way we passed across the slumbering city and out upon the broad, bleak highway on our journey eastward to the Ourals. It commenced to rain in torrents, and soon all of us were wet and uncomfortable, but through the long night we marched onward in dogged silence. Conversation was forbidden, and those who had spoken had felt the thong of the escort’s whip about his shoulders.

The convict to whom I was chained I recognised as the guide who had conducted me over the Winter Palace. What was his crime I knew not, but he plodded on, with a settled look of terror on his face, and the sighs that frequently escaped him plainly showed what were his feelings at being exiled from his native land.

His was not the face of a criminal, but rather that of one who had been unjustly condemned, as I had been.

Our wet clothes clung to us as we walked, our feet splashed through great pools at every step, and the icy wind that blew across the wide level highway chilled our very bones, greatly adding to our discomfort.

We must have walked six hours, for as the day dawned, cloudy and grey, we saw in the distance the wooden houses of Jjora, and half an hour later were drawn up in a line in the open space before the little church.

Here our fetters were removed; but in the meantime the news had spread through the village that a convict convoy was on the march, and the inhabitants, taking compassion upon us, crowded round with steaming tureens of tschi, piles of new bread, and jugs of vodki. They were not allowed to approach us, however, and were compelled to set their offerings at the roadside and retire.

The pity felt for Siberian exiles is universal, and even the Cossacks seemed to have some sympathy for us poor wretches, as they allowed us to partake freely of what the kind-hearted peasants offered.

I was almost exhausted by the long tramp, and ate ravenously. As soon as we had appeased our hunger, we were marched inside the church to attend a parting mass and hear a brief sermon.

As we knelt, the priest went through the ritual, afterwards giving us an address, urging submission and penitence, as well as extolling the Czar’s clemency most likely; but as I was unable to understand a word, I was spared this canting hypocrisy, and was glad when the grim farce was over and we had left the sacred building.

Soon we were upon our way again, and through out the day trudged wearily onward. With a thick pine forest on each side of the road, the journey resembled a sea voyage, one spot so much like another that we always seemed to remain in the same place.

We had no chains to trouble us now; but though permission had been given to talk, all desire for conversation had gone out of us, so jaded and weary were we. Without a halt, we pushed on until long after daylight had faded, and when at last a rest was made we prepared to bivouac in the forest.

A large fire was lit, some biscuits and salt beef served out, and then, with nothing further to protect us from the frost than our greatcoats and rugs, we flung ourselves upon the ground and sought repose.

I was exhausted and soon fell asleep. I must have continued so for several hours, when suddenly I felt a hand upon my cheek, and in the fitful light thrown by the dying embers of the fire, saw a Cossack bending over me.

All was quiet, save for the shadowy forms of the sentries, who paced quietly to and fro among the surrounding trees.

As I awoke, the man at my side placed his finger significantly upon my lips, whispering in broken English, “Don’t utter a word, but listen; Frank Burgoyne, remember what I am about to tell you. Be brave, and you may escape.”

“Escape!” I ejaculated, rubbing my eyes, half-believing that I must be dreaming. “How can I?”

“The matter is simple if you follow my directions; but it will require nerve and firm determination. If you falter you are lost.”

“Tell me, how can it be done?” I whispered, eagerly.

He bent so closely that, although his face was unrecognisable in the darkness, I could feel his breath. Placing his mouth to my ear he said: “To-morrow afternoon we shall pass through a small village called Podberesa. A mile after leaving it, we shall come to cross-roads, and there you will see a two-horse sleigh awaiting you, the driver of which will have a red ribbon upon his whip. Be on the watch, and when close to it make a dash between the guards, jump in, and you will be driven to the coast, where you can get away to England. In the sleigh you will find the dress of a courier, and a passport which will ensure your safety.”

“But the escort; they will fire!” I exclaimed in amazement.

“There are no ‘buts.’ Time does not permit of reflection. Do as I bid, and you will not be harmed,” he said.

“You are my friend, then?”

“No, scarcely that. My duty is to take you to the mines.”

“Then why do you tell me how to escape?”

“There is reason in most things that we do.”

“And what is your reason for this?” I asked. “Perhaps you can explain why I have been kept in that horrible prison without trial, and why I, an Englishman, should be sent to Siberia for no offence whatever?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, “I am aware of all this. But hush! The guards are changing. Remember all I have said; make your dash for liberty with a stout heart, and when you return to London all will be explained. Adieu, and bon voyage.”

The man crawled noiselessly away, but as he lifted himself upon his hands the fire threw out a flicker of light which fell upon his features. It was only momentarily and then died away, yet in that brief second I detected a close—even striking—resemblance to some one I had seen before.

He slipped away without a sound, just as the sentry passed; nevertheless for a long time I lay awake trying to recollect where I had seen the soldier’s face before.

At last I felt positive the voice was the same as that of the officer who had visited me in the cell, yet what motive he could have in planning my escape, I could not guess. Then again I felt sure the face resembled some one I had known intimately, or had cause to remember. Suddenly it dawned upon me.

The face was similar to that of the man I had seen leaving the house in Bedford Place!

The next day passed much as the preceding one, though with considerable excitement and anxiety I prepared myself for my bold attempt to regain freedom. It was late in the afternoon that we passed through the village, and it was fast growing dusk when the object for which I was straining my eyes came into view—a sleigh, the driver of which had the reins and whip gathered up in the act of starting.

The critical moment arrived.

Just as we were passing, I slipped out of the ranks, and made a sudden dash, falling headlong into the vehicle. The fall saved me.

I heard the word of command. A dozen shots rang out. But in a few seconds we were flying at a furious rate along the smooth highway in an opposite direction. It was an exciting moment, but I did not lose my nerve.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the driver, in English; “the guards dare not leave the prisoners, and we shall beat them easily. Dress as quickly as you can, for by this time to-morrow we must be at Viborg.”

I found the clothes, and exchanged my convict’s dress for them. In the pockets were a passport and a purse well filled with roubles. When dressed, I settled myself to think. With relays of horse at every post-station, we travelled all that night. Next evening we drove into Viborg.

I questioned the driver, but he would not tell me by whom he had been engaged.

“You have been wronged, and reparation must be made,” was all he replied.

By no ingenious questioning could I elicit any particulars as to who was instrumental in scheming my escape, for to all my inquiries he was dumb, although he appeared fully cognisant of my adventures since I had been in Russia.

On arrival at Viborg I lost no time in searching for a ship, and, to my relief, found one leaving for Hull in a few hours. I exhibited my passport as an official courier, obtained a berth, and before the next day dawned had the satisfaction of watching the lights of the Russian port disappear at the stern.