Borisovitch was lifted from her horse, half dead with fatigue and terror. Macintyre was dragged to the ground, his kalal stripped off, and his arms pinioned. Then the two were led before the khan, who sat framed in the dark opening of his yourt, and blinking in the firelight, half stupid with naliphka.

The courage of both man and girl rose, as they felt the firm ground beneath their feet and knew something of their danger.

"We are to see the yourts a little closer, together, barishna," said Macintyre with a smile.

She nodded with something of her old brightness, while the firelight reddened the gold of her hair and flickered in her shining eyes.

For a minute or two they stood thus-he and the girl, with their captors by the fire, the blinking khan at their feet-Macintyre, with the instinct of the journalist, thinking what splendid copy the scene would make.

Before them, at irregular intervals, stood the yourts, the grey felt looming wan in the dying light, the loose cloths flapping in the evening breeze. Beyond lay the purple shadow of the hills, crowned here and there by a mass of cloud, its edges touched by the sinking sun with lingering fire.

Around them, in a wide semicircle, squatted the Kirghiz, the men listening to the talk of the returned raiders, the women gazing at the high-bred Russian girl as at a vision from another world, and holding their children between their knees to remind them of this-the flat faces, the glistening eyes, springing into sight or falling into shadow as the firelight leaped or sank.

From the far left came the many sounds of the herd; the air was full of the moist sweetness of the coming night, mingled with the acrid smell of the dung fires.

A hush fell upon all as one of the Kirghiz, having prostrated himself before the khan, told the story of the baranta. It was a drowsy business, but the end made up for all.

"Behold now, O Khan, give order that we may obey; give order, O Son of Ghenghiz, whose wisdom is boundless as the steppe, whose anger terrible as the bouran."

And the khan blinked in the firelight. "Who had poisoned his naliphka, so that he could not think?"

Macintyre saw how it was, and hope revived. While the Kirghiz was droning out his oration, the Englishman muttered to the girl at his side: "Have you a knife or a pair of scissors ?"

She sidled a little closer to him. The next moment his arms

were free, and he felt her bare hand brush over his. Every nerve in his body tingled. Of course they were only comrades in danger, but-well, he was man and she was woman. The Kirghiz droned on, trying to pierce the muddled wits of the khan, who sat blinking in the fire flicker.

Presently the brute's head nodded and his sheep-skin cap was tilted over his eyes. A child laughed.

Then the rage of the savage and the fire of the naliphka blazed out together. The khan leaped to his feet and glared around him, his eyes rolling in the fire play. He flung his arm towards the prisoners, and shouted a guttural order.

Three women started forward, but Macintyre was nearest and free. He leaped upon the khan, gripped him by the throat of his kalal and clapped a revolver to his ear. Then he aired his Turki :

"Hear, men of the Issyk; the daughter of the Great White Presence will go into the yourt of the khan : he and I have much to say. Let no man presume to draw near, or I will slay this one where he stands."

For a heart-throb the lives of the prisoners hung upon a thread. Then Macintyre nodded to the girl, who slipped into the yourt and dropped the flaps behind her.

The khan stood passive; to feel that rim of cold iron was wonderfully sobering. But when the girl had disappeared, he shook himself together and laughed a thick laugh.

"Ha," he cried, "surely this also is a mighty khan. Let us treat him as a brother. Set the cauldron and bring forth the sheep. Hasten, men of the Issyk, lest reproach fall upon our hospitality."

Macintyre never loosened his hold; he watched with his soul in his eyes.

Four men set up a great cauldron and filled it from their water-skins. Two others heaped brushwood, dried fern, and camel argols around it, and fired the heap. Another man dashed away towards the herd. Silence reigned in the great circle of watchers-they might have been statues but for their eyeballs rolling in the firelight.

The scene fascinated Macintyre, and for a moment he relaxed his vigilance. That was fatal. In a heart-beat the pistol was dashed from his hand, he was hurled to the ground, thrust head to knees and hands to feet, and so bound. Then two men carried him like a sheep towards the cauldron and dropped him down by the fire. The water was already beginning to hiss as the great pot heated.

The crowd pressed in; they had often heard of a khan, when

he came to power, thrusting a brother or an uncle into the boiling cauldron ; now they were going to see it done, and they fought for a good place. The khan urged the men to pile on more fuel, and cursed the slowness of the fire.

Macintyre lay in torment: the cords cut into him, and the heat made them bite the deeper. The fire was eating into his flesh where the clothes were drawn tight by his doubled body. In the throb of his agony he caught himself wishing that burning wool did not stink so. The steam began to curl above the cauldron, and he almost welcomed the idea that it suggested; anything must be better than this dry torture.

Suddenly a woman screamed. He could not turn his head, but he knew the voice; it was Marie Borisovitch, who, drawn by the rumour of the crowd, had slipped from the yourt; she saw and understood.

With a supreme effort Macintyre dominated his body, and, though his voice was hoarse with agony, shouted out :

"Marie, the revolver dropped inside the yourt. The horses are to the left.

Fly!"

The khan did not understand English, but the tone was unmis takable; he roared an order. Two men stooped to raise Macintyre and thrust him into the boiling cauldron; there was a sharp crack, and he on the right threw up his arms and fell forward, tearing at the fire with his hands.

Then it seemed to Macintyre that the shot was echoed with a thousand reverberations; the roar of thunder was in his ears; the earth shook, and he knew no more.

When he came to himself, Marie was laying cool bandages to his burns, and Yermak was holding a water-skin.

A week later Macintyre got his papers and set out to "shoot argali" in the Ala Tau. His last public appearance in Semipalatinsk was at the wedding of Marie Borisovitch and the lieutenant of Cossacks. But everybody knows what a furore his letters made when they appeared in the Daily Herald.

443

E

THE NEWFOUNDLAND

REGIMENTS.

UROPEAN history is generally much better known and more appreciated than the records of the struggles and conquests of the New World, for the study of which, indeed, there seems to be a decided distaste. For one who has read the history of India, a hundred are acquainted with that of France or Spain; and the strife of the Guelphs and Ghibelines, for instance, is a subject much more familiar to the general reader than Pizarro's conquest of Peru or the many wars of North America.

And it is not altogether unnatural that it should be so, for in the New World there has usually been an entire absence of the pomp and circumstance of war, which to many is so attractive.

In Europe you have large masses of men and glittering squadrons of cavalry, led by men of ancient name and royal blood, and a background of historic towns and frowning castles. Very different is the picture which transatlantic warfare presents. Pizarro's army consisted of but a handful of adventurers and half a dozen horses. Instead of brightly-clad troops advancing to the sound of martial music, you have ragged desperadoes scrambling through the undergrowth of primeval forests; the object of their attack no castle of the Rhine, but a collection of squalid huts; the enemy half-naked savages armed with bow and tomahawk. There is an absence of pageantry, of the picturesque and the chivalrous-there is no "Gentlemen, fire first!"

Nevertheless, the importance of an event is not always to be judged from the dimensions of the instruments employed; a penknife may cause death, and so may a bomb or a guillotine. The significance of a battle rather depends on the questions which it decides than upon the number of troops engaged, and in America matters affecting vastly the course of the world's history have been settled by very insignificant forces.

It is very much to be regretted that colonial history and colonial

affairs receive so little attention from the English people and from English statesmen.

I do not wish to imply that the colonies are, or that on the whole they have been hardly used, but that they have been neglected—they have been allowed to turn every one to their own way, and their importance as part of a great Empire has been sadly overlooked. Our colonies are very loosely knit together, and have but little connection either between themselves or with the mother country. In commercial matters they treat each other and England almost as foreign countries. There has been in the past no unity of purpose, no adequate appreciation of a common interest, no general scheme of defence, no conception of an Imperial policy.

Happily this state of things is changing; and, though the idea of Imperial Federation has not as yet taken definite form, sympathy and interest and the desire for closer connection is growing stronger, year by year, in the minds of the subjects of the Queen in all parts of the world.

Newfoundland is the oldest of our colonies, and from its geographical position is one of the first importance, for it lies across the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and in time of war controls the trade of Canada. That it should be undefended is a striking instance of the carelessness of the Imperial authorities in colonial matters. This has not always been the case; St. John's was once fortified and garrisoned. It is of the troops which formed the principal part of its garrison that I wish to tell the story.

A careful study of the history and condition of Newfoundland will, I think, make two matters clear: first, that this island, which is the key to Canada, should not be left undefended; secondly, that the government of this colony should no longer be entrusted to the local politicians, whose incompetence is beyond the possibility of question, as their transactions during the last two years have shown, by no means for the first time.

Either this colony should revert to the Government of the Crown or it should be incorporated in the Dominion of Canada.

The history of Newfoundland is long and complicated, and it is not a happy one. In the beginning the island was simply a fishing station frequented by seafaring people of most of the maritime countries of Europe; but after a time only by the English and French, who continued to dispute its possession until the early part of this century. In the course of time, notwithstanding many restrictions and discouragements, a population gradually grew up, and steadily, though slowly, increased. Newfoundlanders ascribe the