for him to travel on foot, though a breeze passed over the steppe. The breeze burned and tanned the face of the handsome boy. Soon they came to the ravine, at the bottom of which was a spring which distilled its pure waters into the Kagamlik. Around that ravine not far from the river three strong oaks were growing on a mound; to these our wayfarers turned at once. They came also upon traces of the road, which looked yellow along the steppe from flowers which were growing on droppings of cattle. The road was deserted; there were neither teamsters, nor tar spots on the ground, nor gray oxen slowly moving. But here and there lay the bones of cattle torn to pieces by wolves and whitening in the sun. The wayfarers went on steadily, resting only under the shade of oak groves. The dark-haired boy lay down to slumber on the green turf, and the old man watched. They passed through streams also; and when there was no ford they searched for one, walking for a distance along the shore. Sometimes, too, the old man carried the boy over in his arms, with a power that was wonderful in a man who begged his bread. But he was a sturdy minstrel! Thus they dragged on till evening, when the boy sat down by the wayside at an oak forest and said: "My breath is gone, I have spent my strength; I can walk no farther, I will lie down here and die." The old man was terribly distressed. "Oh, these cursed wastes, not a house nor a cottage by the roadside, nor a living soul! But we cannot spend the night here. Evening is already falling, it will be dark in an hour, and just listen! The old man stopped speaking, and for a while there was deep silence. But it was soon broken by a distant dismal sound which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth; it did really come from the ravine, which lay not far from the road. "Those are wolves," said Zagloba. "Last night we had horses, they ate them; this time they will get at our own persons. I have, it is true, a pistol under my svitka; but I don't know whether my powder would hold out for two charges, and I should not like to be the supper at a wolf's wedding. Listen! Another howl!" The howling was heard again, and appeared to be nearer. "Rise, my child!" said the old man; " and if you are unable to walk, I will carry you. What's to be done? I see that I have a great affection for you, which is surely because living in a wifeless condition I am unable to leave legitimate descendants of my own; and if I have illegitimate they are heathen, for I lived a long time in Turkey. With me ends the family of Zagloba, with its escutcheon 'In the Forehead.' You will take care of my old age, but now you must get up and sit on my shoulders." "My feet have grown so heavy that I cannot move." "You were boasting of your strength. But stop! stop! As God is dear to me, I hear the barking of dogs. That's it. Those are dogs, not wolves. Then Demiánovka, of which the old minstrel told me, must be near. Praise be to God in the highest! I had thought not to make a fire on account of the wolves; for we should have surely gone to sleep, we are so tired. Yes, they are dogs. Do you hear?" "Let us go on," said Helena, whose strength returned suddenly. They had barely come out of the wood when smoke from a number of cottages appeared at no great distance. They saw also three domes of a church, covered with fresh shingles, which shone yet in the dusk from the last gleams of the evening twilight. The barking of dogs seemed nearer, more distinct each moment. "Yes, that is Demiánovka; it cannot be another place," said Zagloba. "They receive minstrels hospitably everywhere; maybe we shall find supper and lodging, and perhaps good people will take us farther. Wait a moment! this is one of the prince's villages; there must be an agent living in it. We will rest and get news. The prince must be already on the way. Rescue may come sooner than you expect. Remember that you are a mute. I began at the wrong end when I told you to call me Onufri, for since you are a mute you cannot call me anything. I shall speak for you and for myself, and, praise be to God! I can use peasants' speech as well as Latin. Move on, move on! Now the first cottage is near. My God! when will our wanderings come to an end? If we could get some warmed beer, I should praise the Lord God for even that." Zagloba ceased, and for a time they went on in silence together; then he began to talk again. "Remember that you are dumb. When they ask you about anything, point to me and say, 'Hum, hum, hum! niya, niyá !' I have seen that you have much wit, and besides, it is a question of our lives. If we should chance on a regiment belonging to the hetmans or the prince, then we would tell who we are at once, especially if the officer is courteous and an acquaintance of Pan Skshetuski. It is true that you are under the guardianship of the prince, and you have nothing to fear from soldiers. Oh! what fires are those bursting out in the glen? Ah, there are blacksmiths- there is a forge! But I see there is no small number of people at it. Let us go there." In the cleft which formed the entrance to the ravine there was a forge, from the chimney of which bundles and bunches of golden sparks were thrown out; and through the open doors and numerous chinks in the walls sparkling light burst forth, intercepted from moment to moment by dark forms moving around inside. In front of the forge were to be seen in the evening twilight a number of dark forms standing together in knots. The hammers in the forge beat in time, till the echo was heard all about; and the sound was mingled with songs in front of the forge, with the buzz of conversation and the barking of dogs. Seeing all this, Zagloba turned immediately into the ravine, touched his lyre, and began to sing:— "Hei! on the mountain Reapers are seen, Under the mountain, The mountain green, Cossacks are marching on." Singing thus, he approached the crowd of people standing in front of the forge. He looked around. They were peas. ants, for the most part drunk... A little later the minstrel had strengthened himself power fully with mutton and a good portion of mead. Next morning early, he moved on with his attendant lad, in a comfortable telega, toward Zólotonosha, escorted by a number of mounted peasants armed with pikes and scythes. They went through Kovraiets, Chernobái, and Krapivna. The wayfarers saw that everything was seething; the peasants were arming at all points, the forges were working from morning till night, and only the terrible name and power of Prince Yeremi still restrained the bloody outburst. West of the Dnieper the tempest was let loose in all its fury. News of the defeat at Korsún had spread over all Russia with the speed of lightning, and every living soul was rushing forth. THE MIGHTY MAGICIAN. BY CALDERON. (From the "Magico Prodigioso"; Shelley's translation.) [PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA, one of the chief poets of Spain, was born in Madrid, January 17, 1600; died there May 25, 1681. He received his schooling at a Jesuits' college in Madrid; studied history, philosophy, and law at Salamanca; and served ten years in the army in Milan and the Netherlands. He was then summoned to Madrid by Philip IV., a prince fond of theatrical amusements, and was appointed director of the court theater. In 1651 he entered the priesthood, but notwithstanding his religious duties continued to write for the stage, besides which he composed many "autos sacramentales," or the Corpus Christi plays, performed annually in the cathedrals of Toledo, Seville, and Granada. According to his own account he wrote one hundred and eleven plays, among which are: "The Fairy Lady," ""Tis Better than it Was," "The Mock Astrologer," "The Wonder-working Magician," "The Devotion of the Cross," "The Constant Prince," "Life is a Dream," "No Magic like Love."] SCENE I. CYPRIAN as a student; CLARIN and MoscoN as poor scholars with books. Cyprian In the sweet solitude of this calm place, This intricate wild wilderness of trees And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, To me are ever best society, And whilst with glorious festival and song Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, And bears his image in loud jubilee To its new shrine, I would consume what still You, my friends, Be worth the labor, and return for me When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, Moscon I cannot bring my mind, Clarin Certainly is, to leave you, sir, without Just saying some three or four thousand words. Of such festivity, you can be content To come forth to a solitary country With three or four old books, and turn your back My master's in the right; Than a procession day, with troops, and priests, Moscon Clarin From first to last, Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer: You praise not what you feel but what he does;· You lie under a mistake. Cyprian Moscon Clarin Enough, you foolish fellows! When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide How happens it, altho' you can maintain That yet you go there? Is clear: Nay, the consequence who ever did what he advises Others to do? Moscon Would that my feet were wings, So would I fly to Livia. [Exit. To speak truth, Clarin Cyprian Livia is she who has surprised my heart; Now, since I am alone, let me examine [Exit. The question which has long disturbed my mind The words of mystic import and deep sense In which he defines God. My intellect Can find no God with whom these marks and signs |