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Rh nothing; they had taken each other softly by the hand, behind the bench, so that no one could see them, and it seemed so good that they stayed there, their eyes lost in the depths of the darkness.

How warm and splendid a night! The village was falling asleep on both sides of the road, tranquil as a child. You only heard, from time to time, the crowing of some cock, waked too soon. From the great woods hard by came long breaths that passed like caresses over the roofs. The meadows, with their black shadows, put on a mysterious and secluded majesty, while all the running waters that gushed forth into the darkness seemed to be the cool and rhythmic breathing of the sleeping country. At moments, the mill-wheel, fast asleep, seemed to be dreaming, like those old watchdogs that bark while snoring. It creaked, it talked all by itself, lulled by the falls of the Morelle, whose sheet of water gave forth the sustained and musical note of an organ pipe. Never had more widespread peace fallen over a happier corner of the earth.

a month later, day for day, on Saint-Louis's eve, Rocreuse was in dismay. The Prussians had beaten the emperor, and were advancing toward the village by forced marches. For


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44 a week past, people passing along the road had announced the Prussians: "They are at Lormière, they are at Novelles;" and, hearing that they were approaching so fast, Rocreuse thought, every morning, to see them come down by the Gagny woods. Still, they did not come; this frightened the inhabitants still more. They would surely fall upon the village at night and cut everybody's throat.

The night before, a little before daybreak, there had been, an alarm. The inhabitants had waked up, hearing a great noise of men on the road. The women were just falling upon their knees and crossing themselves, when red trousers were recognized through cracks of windows prudently opened. It was a detachment of French. The captain immediately asked for the mayor of the place, and stayed at the mill, after talking with old Merlier.

The sun rose gayly that day. It would be hot at noon. Over the woods floated a yellow light, while in the distance, above the meadows, rose white vapors. The clean, pretty village awoke in the cool air, and the country, with its river and springs, had the dew-sprinkled loveliness of a nosegay. But this fine weather made no one laugh. They had just seen the captain walk round about the mill, examine the neighboring houses, cross to the other side of the Morelle, and from there study the country through a

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh ; old Merlier, who was with him, seemed to be explaining the country to him. Then the captain stationed soldiers behind walls, behind trees, in holes in the ground. The bulk of the detachment was encamped in the courtyard of the mill. So there was to be a fight? And when old Merlier came back, he was plied with questions. He gave a long nod with his head, without speaking. Yes, there was to be a fight.

Françoise and Dominique were in the courtyard, looking at him. At last, he took his pipe out of his mouth and said simply,—

"Ah! my poor children, there will be no wedding for you to-morrow!"

Dominique, his lips set, a line of anger across his forehead, raised himself up on tiptoe from time to time, with his eyes fixed on the Gagny woods, as if he longed to see the Prussians come. Françoise, very pale, serious, came and went, supplying the soldiers with what they needed. They were making their soup in a corner of the courtyard, and joking while waiting for their meal.

Meanwhile the captain seemed delighted. He had examined the rooms and the great hall of the mill, looking out upon the river. Now, sitting by the well, he was talking with old Merlier.

"You have a real fortress here," said he. "We ought to hold out till evening. . . . The beggars are late. They should be here by this time."

The miller looked serious. He saw his mill


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46 flaming like a torch; but he did not complain, thinking it useless. He only opened his mouth to say,—

"You ought to have some one hide the boat behind the wheel. There is a hole there that will hold her. . . . Perhaps she may be of use."

The captain gave an order. This captain was a handsome man of about forty, tall and with a kindly face. The sight of Françoise and Dominique seemed to please him. He was interested in them, as if he had forgotten the coming struggle. He followed Françoise about with his eyes, and his look told plainly that he found her charming. Then, turning to Dominique,—

"So you're not in the army, my boy?" he asked abruptly.

"I'm a foreigner," the young man answered.

The captain seemed only half pleased with this reason. He winked and smiled. Françoise was pleasanter company than cannon. Then, seeing him smile, Dominique added,—

"I'm a foreigner, but I can put a bullet into an apple at five hundred metres. . . . See, my gun's there, behind you."

"It may be of use to you," the captain replied simply.

Françoise had come up, trembling a little. And, without minding the people there, Dominique took both the hands she held out to him,


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Deák, Francis


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Rh and pressed them in his, as if to take her under his protection. The captain smiled again, but added not a word. He remained sitting, his sword between his legs, his eyes looking at vacancy, as if in a dream.

It was already two o'clock. It was growing very hot. There was a dead silence. In the courtyard, under the sheds, the soldiers had fallen to eating their soup. Not a sound came from the village, in which the people had barricaded their houses, doors, and windows. A dog, left alone in the road, was howling. From the neighboring woods and meadows, motionless in the heat, came a far-off voice, long sustained, made up of every separate breath of air. A cuckoo was singing. Then the silence spread itself over the country also.

And, in this slumbering air, a shot suddenly burst forth. The captain sprang up quickly, the soldiers dropped their plates of soup, still half full. In a few seconds, every man was at his post for the fight; the mill was occupied from top to bottom. Yet the captain, who had gone out upon the road, could make out nothing; to the right and left, the road stretched out, empty and all white. A second shot was heard, and still nothing, not a shadow; but, on turning round, he espied, over towards Gagny, between two trees, a light cloudlet of smoke wafted away like gossamer. The wood was still profoundly quiet.


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48 "The rascals have taken to the forest," he muttered. "They know we are here."

Then the firing kept up harder, and harder, between the French soldiers, stationed round the mill, and the Prussians, hidden behind the trees. The bullets whistled across the Morelle, without occasioning any loss on one side or the other. The shots were irregular, came from every bush; and all you saw was still the little clouds of smoke gently wafted away by the wind. This lasted for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune, as if indifferent. Françoise and Dominique, who had stayed in the courtyard, raised themselves up on tiptoe, and looked over the wall. They were particularly interested in watching a little soldier, stationed on the brink of the Morelle, behind the hulk of an old boat; he was flat on his belly, watched his chance, fired his shot, then let himself slide down into a ditch, a little behind him, to reload his rifle; and his movements were so droll, so cunning, so supple, that it made one smile to see him. He must have espied the head of some Prussian, for he got up quickly and brought his piece to his shoulder; but, before he fired, he gave a cry, turned over upon himself, and rolled into the ditch, where his legs stiffened out with the momentary, convulsive jerk of those of a chicken with its neck wrung. The little soldier had received a bullet full in the breast. He was the


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Rh first man killed. Instinctively Françoise seized hold of Dominique's hand and squeezed it with a nervous grip.

"Don't stay there," said the captain. "The bullets reach here."

As he spoke a little, sharp stroke was heard in the old elm, and a branch fell in zigzags through the air; but the two young people did not stir, riveted there by anxiety at the sig ht. [sic] On the outskirts of the wood, a Prussian came out suddenly from behind a tree, as from a side scene, beating the air with his arms, and tumbling over backwards. And then nothing stirred, the two dead men seemed to sleep in the dazzling sunshine, you saw no one in the torpid landscape. Even the crack of the shots stopped. Only the Morelle kept up its silver-toned whispering.

Old Merlier looked at the captain in surprise, as if to ask if it were over.

"Here it comes," the latter muttered. "Look out! Don't stay there."

He had not finished speaking when there came a terrific volley. It was as if the great elm were mowed down, a cloud of leaves whirled about them. Luckily the Prussians had fired too high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise away, while old Merlier followed them, crying out,—


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50 "Go down to the little cellar; the walls are solid."

But they did not mind him, they went into the great hall, where ten soldiers, or so, were waiting in silence, with shutters closed, peeping through the cracks. The captain had stayed alone in the courtyard, crouched down behind the little wall, while the furious volleys continued. The soldiers he had stationed outside yielded ground only foot by foot. Yet they came in, one by one, crawling on their faces, when the enemy had dislodged them from their hiding-places. Their orders were to gain time, not to show themselves, so that the Prussians might not know what numbers they had before them. Another hour went by; and, as a sergeant came up, saying that there were only two or three men left outside, the officer looked at his watch, muttering,—

"Half after two. . . . Come, we must hold out four hours."

He had the gate of the courtyard shut, and all preparations were made for an energetic resistance. As the Prussians were on the other side of the Morelle, an immediate assault was not to be feared. To be sure, there was a bridge, a little over a mile off, but they doubtless did not know of its existence, and it was hardly probable that they would try to ford the river. So the officer merely had the road watched. The whole


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Rh effort was to be made on the side toward the fields.

The firing had once more ceased. The mill seemed dead beneath the hot sun. Not a shutter was opened, not a sound came from the inside. Little by little, meanwhile, the Prussians showed themselves at the outskirts of the Gagny wood. They stretched forth their heads, grew more daring. In the mill, several soldiers had already levelled their rifles; but the captain cried out,—

"No, no, wait. . . . Let them come up."

They were very cautious about it, looking at the mill with evident distrust. This old dwelling, silent and dismal, with its curtains of ivy made them uneasy. Still, they kept advancing. When there were about fifty of them in the meadow opposite, the officer said a single word,—

"Fire!"

A tearing sound was heard, followed by single shots. Françoise, shaken with a fit of trembling, put her hands up to her ears, in spite of herself. Dominique, behind the soldiers, looked on; and, when the smoke had blown away a little, he saw three Prussians stretched on their backs in the middle of the field. The rest had thrown themselves down behind the willows and poplars; and the siege began.

For over an hour the mill was riddled with bullets. They whipped its old walls like hail.


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52 When they struck stone, you heard them flatten out and fall back into the water. Into wood they penetrated with a hollow sound. Now and then a cracking told that the wheel had been hit. The soldiers inside husbanded their shots, fired only when they could take aim. From time to time the captain would look at his watch; and, as a ball split a shutter and then lodged in the ceiling,—

"Four o'clock," he muttered. "We shall never hold out."

It was true, this terrible firing of musketry was shivering the old mill. A shutter fell into the water, riddled like a piece of lace, and had to be replaced by a mattress. Old Merlier exposed himself every moment, to make sure of the injury done to his poor wheel, whose cracking went to his heart. It was all over with it, this time; never would he be able to repair it. Dominique had implored Françoise to go, but she would stay with him; she had sat down behind a great oak clothespress, the sides of which gave out a deep sound. Then Dominique placed himself in front of Françoise. He had not fired yet; he held his gun in his hands, not being able to get up to the windows, whose entire width was taken up by the soldiers. At every discharge the floor shook.

"Look out! look out!" the captain cried of a sudden.


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Rh He had just seen a whole black mass come out from the wood. Immediately a formidable platoon fire was opened. It was as if a waterspout had passed over the mill. Another shutter gave way, and, by the gaping opening of the window, the bullets came in. Two soldiers rolled upon the floor. One did not move; they pushed him up against the wall, because he was in the way. The other squirmed on the ground, begging them to make an end of him; but no one minded him, the balls kept coming in, every one shielded himself, and tried to find a loophole to fire back through. A third soldier was wounded; he said not a word, he let himself slide down by the edge of a table, with fixed and haggard eyes. Opposite these dead men, Françoise, seized with horror, had pushed her chair aside mechanically, to sit down on the ground next the wall; she felt smaller there, and in less danger. Meanwhile they had gone after all the mattresses in the house, and had half stopped up the window. The hall was getting filled with rubbish, with broken weapons, with gutted furniture.

"Five o'clock," said the captain. "Keep it up. . . . They are going to try to cross the water."

At this instant Françoise gave a shriek. A rebounding ball had just grazed her forehead. A few drops of blood appeared. Dominique


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54 looked at her; then, stepping up to the window, he fired his first shot, and kept on firing. He loaded, fired, without paying any attention to what was going on near him; only from time to time he would give Françoise a look. For the rest, he did not hurry himself, took careful aim. The Prussians, creeping along by the poplars, were attempting the passage of the Morelle, as the captain had foreseen; but, as soon as one of them risked showing himself, he would fall, hit in the head by a ball from Dominique. The captain, who followed this game, was astonished. He complimented the young man, saying that he would be glad to have a lot of marksmen like him. Dominique did not hear him. A ball cut his shoulder, another bruised his arm; and he kept on firing.

There were two more men killed. The matresses, all slashed to bits, no longer stopped up the windows. A last volley seemed as if it would carry away the mill. The position was no longer tenable. Still the officer repeated,—

"Stick to it. . . . Half an hour more."

Now he counted the minutes. He had promised his superior officers to hold the enemy there until evening, and would not draw back a sole's breadth before the time he had set for the retreat. He still had his gracious manner, smiling at Françoise, to reassure her. He himself had just picked up a dead soldier's rifle, and was firing.


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Rh There were only four soldiers left in the hall. The Prussians showed themselves in a body on the other bank of the Morelle, and it was evident that they might cross the river at any time. A few minutes more elapsed. The captain stuck to it obstinately, would not give the order to retreat, when a sergeant came running up, saying.—

"They are on the road, they are going to take us in the rear."

The Prussians must have found the bridge. The captain pulled out his watch.

"Five minutes more," said he. "They won't be here for five minutes."

Then, at the stroke of six, he at last consented to order his men out by a little door, opening upon an alleyway. From there they threw themselves into a ditch, they reached the Sauval forest. Before going, the captain saluted old Merlier very politely, excusing himself. And he even added,—

"Make them lose time. . . . We shall be back again."

Meanwhile Dominique stayed on in the hall. He still kept firing, hearing nothing, understanding nothing. He only felt that he must defend Françoise. The soldiers were gone, without his suspecting it the least in the world. He took aim and killed his man at every shot. Suddenly there was a loud noise. The Prussians, from


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56 the rear, had just overrun the courtyard. He fired his last shot, and they fell upon him as his piece was still smoking.

Four men held him. Others shouted round him in a frightful language. They all but cut his throat off-hand. Françoise threw herself before him in supplication; but an officer came in and took charge of the prisoner. After a few sentences exchanged in German with the soldiers, he turned to Dominique and said roughly, and in very good French,—

"You will be shot in two hours."

was a rule made by the German staff: every Frenchman not belonging to the regular army, and taken with arms in his hands, should be shot. Even the guerilla companies were not recognized as belligerents. By thus making terrible examples of the peasants who defended their own firesides, the Germans wished to prevent the uprising of the whole country en masse, which they dreaded.

The officer, a tall, lean man of about fifty, put Dominique through a brief examination. Although he spoke very pure French, he had quite the Prussian stiffness.

"You belong in these parts?"

"No, I am a Belgian."


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Rh [[Category:]]"Why have you taken up arms? . . . All this can't be any of your business."

Dominique did not answer. At this moment, the officer caught sight of Françoise, standing upright and very pale, listening; her slight wound put a red bar across her white forehead. He looked at the young people, one after the other, seemed to understand, and contented himself with adding,—

"You don't deny that you were firing?"

"I fired as long as I was able," Dominique answered quietly.

This confession was needless, for he was black with powder, covered with sweat, spotted with some drops of blood that had run down from the scratch on his shoulder.

"Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be shot in two hours."

Françoise did not cry out. She clasped her hands together and raised them in a gesture of mute despair. The officer noticed this gesture. Two soldiers had led Dominique away into the next room, where they were to keep him in sight. The young girl had dropped down upon a chair, her legs giving way under her; she could not cry, she was choking. Meanwhile the officer kept looking at her closely. At last he spoke to her.

"That young man is your brother?" he asked.


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58 She shook her head. He stood there stiff, without a smile. Then, after a silence,—

"He has lived a long while in these parts?"

She nodded yes, still dumb.

"Then he must know the woods round here very well?"

This time she spoke.

"Yes, sir," she said, looking at him in some surprise.

He said no more, and turned on his heel, asking to have the mayor of the village brought to him. But Françoise had risen, a faint blush on her face, thinking to have caught the drift of his questions, and seeing fresh hope in them. It was she who ran to find her father.

Old Merlier, as soon as the shots had ceased, had run quickly down the wooden steps to look at his wheel. He adored his daughter, he had a stout friendship for Dominique, his intended son-in-law; but; his wheel also held a large place in his heart. As the two young ones, as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the scrimmage, he thought of his other love, and this one had suffered grievously. And, bending over the huge wooden carcass, he investigated its wounds, the picture of distress. Five paddles were in splinters, the central framework was riddled. He stuck his fingers into the bullet holes, to measure their depth; he thought over how he could


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Rh repair all this damage. Françoise found him already stopping up cracks with broken bits of wood and moss.

"Father," she said, "you are wanted."

And at last she wept, telling him what she had just heard. Old Merlier shook his head. You didn't shoot people that way. He must see. And he went back into the mill, with his silent, pacific air. When the officer asked him for victuals for his men, he answered that the people in Rocreuse were not accustomed to being bullied, and that nothing would be got from them by violence. He took everything upon himself, but on the condition of being allowed to act alone. The officer showed signs, at first, of getting angry at this cool manner; then he gave in to the old man's curt and businesslike way of talking. He even called him back, to ask him,—

"What do you call those woods there, opposite?"

"The Sauval woods."

"And what is their extent?"

The miller looked at him fixedly.

"I don't know," he answered.

And he walked away. An hour later the contributions of victuals and money required by the officer were in the courtyard of the mill. Night was approaching; Françoise followed the soldiers' movements anxiously. She did not go far from the room in which Dominique was shut up. At


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60 about seven she had a poignant emotion; she saw the officer go into the prisoner's room, and, for a quarter of an hour, she heard their voices raised. One instant, the officer reappeared on the threshold, to give an order in German, which she did not understand; but, when twelve men came and fell into line in the courtyard, with their muskets, she fell a-trembling, she felt ready to die. So it was all over; the execution was to take place. The twelve men waited there ten minutes. Dominique's voice was still raised in a tone of violent refusal. At last the officer came out, slamming the door and saying,—

"Very well, think it over. . . . I give you till to-morrow morning."

And, with a motion of his arm, he ordered the twelve men to break ranks. Françoise stayed on in a sort of stupor. Old Merlier, who had not stopped smoking his pipe, while looking at the squad with an air of simple curiosity, came up and took her by the arm with fatherly gentleness. He led her to her room.

"Keep quiet," he said, "try to sleep. . . . To-morrow it will be daylight, and we will see."

When he withdrew, he locked her in, for prudence sake. It was a principle of his that women were no good, and that they made a mess of it whenever they undertook anything serious. But Françoise did not go to bed; she stayed a long time sitting on her bed, listening to the noises in


text:
Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Bloch, Mark Eliezer

BLOCH,, a German naturalist, born at Ansbach, of very poor Jewish parents, about the year 1730. Having entered the employment of a surgeon at Hamburg, he was enabled by his own exertions to supply the want of early education, and made great progress in the study of anatomy, as well as in the other departments of medical science. After taking his degree as doctor at Frankfort-on-the-Oder he established himself as a physician at Berlin, and found means to collect there a valuable museum of objects from all the three kingdoms of nature, as well as an extensive library. His first work of importance was an essay on the different species of worms found in the bodies of other animals, which gained the prize offered by the Academy of Copenhagen. Many of his papers on different subjects of natural history, comparative anatomy, and physiology, were published in the collections of the various academies of Germany, Holland, and Russia, particularly in that of the Friendly Society of Naturalists at Berlin. But his greatest work was his Allgemeine Naturgeschichte der Fische (12 vols., 1782-95), which occupied the labour of a considerable portion of his life, and is considered to have laid the foundations of the science of ichthyology. The publication was encouraged by a large subscription, and it passed rapidly through five editions in German and in French. Bloch made little or no alteration in the systematic arrangement of Artedi and Linnæus, although he was disposed to introduce into the classification some modifications depending on the structure of the gills, especially on the presence or absence of a fifth gill, without a bony arch. To the number of genera before established he found it necessary to add nineteen new ones; and he described 176 new species, many of them inhabitants of the remotest parts of the ocean, and by the brilliancy of their colours, or the singularity of their forms, as much objects of popular admiration as of scientific curiosity. In 1797 he paid a visit to Paris, in order to examine the large collections of such subjects of natural history as had been inaccessible to him on the shores of the Baltic; and he returned to Berlin by way of Holland. His health, which had hitherto been unimpaired, began now to decline. He went to Carlsbad for its recovery, but his constitution was exhausted, and he died there on the 6th of August 1799.


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 THE WHITE HOUSE
 * WASHINGTON


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Rh the house. The German soldiers, encamped in the courtyard, were singing and laughing: they must have been eating and drinking up to eleven, for the noise did not stop for an instant. In the mill itself heavy steps sounded every now and then; no doubt, they were relieving sentries. But what interested her, above all, were noises that she could not make out, in the room under hers. Several times she lay down on the ground, she put her ear to the floor. This room happened to be the one in which Dominique was locked up. He must have been walking from the wall to the window, for she long heard the regular cadence of his steps; then there was a dead silence, he had doubtless sat down. Besides, the noises stopped, everything was hushed in sleep. When the house seemed to her to slumber, she opened the window as softly as possible, and rested her elbows on the sill.

Outside, the night was calm and warm. The slender crescent moon, setting behind the Sauval woods, lighted up the country with the glimmer of a night taper. The elongated shadows of the great trees barred the meadows with black, while the grass, in the unshaded spots, put on the softness of greenish velvet. But Françoise did not stop to note the mysterious charm of the night. She examined the country, looking for the sentinels that the Germans must have stationed on one side. She plainly saw their shadows, ranged


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62 like the rungs of a ladder along the Morelle. Only a single one stood opposite the mill, on the other side of the river near a willow whose branches dipped into the water. Françoise saw him distinctly; he was a big fellow, standing motionless, his face turned toward the sky with the dreamy look of a shepherd.

Then, when she had carefully inspected the ground, she went back and sat down upon her bed. She stayed there an hour deeply absorbed. Then she listened again; in the house not a breath stirred. She went back to the window, and looked out; but, no doubt, she saw danger in one of the horns of the moon, which still appeared behind the trees, for she went back again to wait. At last the time seemed to have come. The night was quite dark, she no longer saw the sentinel opposite, the country lay spread out like a pool of ink. She listened intently for a moment, and made up her mind. An iron ladder ran near the window, some bars let into the wall, leading from the wheel up to the loft, down which the millers used to climb, to get at certain cog-wheels; then, when the machinery had been altered, the ladder had long since disappeared beneath the rank growth of ivy that covered that side of the mill.

Françoise bravely climbed over the balustrade of her window, grasped one of the iron bars, and found herself in empty space. She began


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Rh to climb down. Her skirts were much in her way. Suddenly a stone broke loose from the masonry, and fell into the Morelle with a resounding splash. She stopped, chilled with a shudder. But she saw that the waterfall, with its continuous roar, drowned out from afar any noise she might make, and she climbed down more boldly, feeling for the ivy with her foot, making sure of the rungs of the ladder. When she had got on a level with the room that was used as Dominique's prison, she stopped. An unforeseen difficulty nearly made her lose all her courage; the window of the room below was not cut regularly under the window of her chamber; it was some way from the ladder, and, when she stretched out her hand, she felt only the wall. Would she have to climb up again, without carrying her plan through to the end? Her arms were getting tired, the murmur of the Morelle beneath her began to make her dizzy. Then she tore off little bits of mortar from the wall, and threw them against Dominique's window. He did not hear, perhaps he was asleep. She broke off some more pieces from the wall, barking her fingers. And her strength was giving out, she felt herself falling backwards, when Dominique, at last, softly opened his window.

"It's I," she whispered. "Take me quick, I'm falling."


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64 It was the first time she had tutoyéed him. He caught her, leaning out, and lifted her into the room. There she had a fit of tears stifling her sobs, so as not to be heard. Then, by a supreme effort, she calmed herself.

"You are guarded?" she asked, in a low voice.

Dominique, still dumfounded at seeing her thus, made a simple sign, pointing to his door. They heard a snoring on the other side; the sentinel must have given way to drowsiness, and lain down on the ground, across the doorway, thinking that, in this way, the prisoner could not get out.

"You must run away," she went on rapidly. "I have come to implore you to run away, and to say good-bye."

But he did not seem to hear her. He kept repeating:

"How, it's you, it's you! . . . how you frightened me! You might have killed yourself."

He took her hands, he kissed them.

"How I love you, Françoise! . . . You are as brave as you are good. I only had one fear, that of dying without seeing you once more. . . . But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have had a quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready."

Little by little he had drawn her closer to him, and she rested her head upon his shoulder.


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Rh The danger drew them nearer together. They forgot all in this embrace.

"Ah! Françoise," Dominique went on, in a caressing voice, "to-day is Saint-Louis's day, our wedding day, that we have waited for so long. Nothing has been able to separate us, since we are here, all alone, faithful to our tryst. . . . It's our wedding morning now, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," she repeated, "our wedding morning."

They exchanged a kiss, trembling. But of a sudden she broke loose, the terrible reality rose up before her.

"You must run away, you must run away," she stammered out. "Let us not lose a minute."

And, as he stretched out his arms once more to take her in the darkness, she again tutoyéed him,—

"Oh! I beg you, listen to me. . . . If you die, I shall die. In an hour it will be daylight. I wish you to go at once."

Then, rapidly, she explained her plan. The iron ladder ran down to the wheel: there, he could take the paddles and get into the boat which was in a recess. After that it would be easy for him to reach the other bank of the river and escape.

"But there must be sentinels there?" he said.

"Only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow."


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66 "And if he sees me, if he tries calling out?"

Françoise shuddered. She put a knife she had brought down with her into his hand. There was a silence.

"And your father, and you?" Dominique continued. "But no, I can't run away. . . . When I am gone, maybe these soldiers will slaughter you. . . . You don't know them. They proposed to show me mercy, if I would be their guide through the Sauval forest. When they find me gone they will stick at nothing."

The young girl did not stop to discuss. She simply answered all the reasons he gave with,—

"For the love of me, fly. . . . If you love me, Dominique, don't stay here a minute longer."

Then she promised to climb back to her room. They would not know that she had helped him. She at last took him in her arms, kissed him to convince him, in an extraordinary outburst of passion. He was beaten. He asked not a question further.

"Swear to me that your father knows of what you are doing, and that he advises me to run away?"

"It was my father sent me," Françoise answered boldly.

She lied. At this moment she felt nothing but a boundless need of knowing him in safety, of escaping from this abominable thought that the


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Rh sun would give the signal for his death. When he was gone, all mishaps might rush down upon her; it would seem sweet to her, as long as he was alive. The selfishness of her love wished him alive, before all else.

"Very well," said Dominique, "I will do as you please."

Then they said nothing more. Dominique went to open the window again; but suddenly a noise chilled their blood. The door was shaken, and they thought it was being opened. Evidently a patrol had heard their voices; and both of them, standing pressed against each other, waited in unspeakable anguish. The door was shaken again, but it did not open. Each gave a stifled sigh; they saw how it was, it must have been the soldier lying across the threshold turning over. And really, silence was restored, the snoring began again.

Dominique would have it that Françoise must first climb back to her room. He took her in his arms; he bade her a mute farewell. Then he helped her to seize the ladder, and grappled hold of it in his turn. But he refused to go down a single rung before he knew she was in her room. When Françoise had climbed in, she whispered, in a voice light as a breath,—

"Au revoir; I love you!"

She stopped with her elbows resting on the window-sill, and tried to follow Dominique with


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68 her eyes. The night was still very dark. She looked for the sentinel, and did not see him; only the willow made a pale spot in the midst of the darkness. For an instant she heard the rustling of Dominique's body along the ivy. Then the wheel creaked, and there was a gentle splashing that told that the young man had found the boat. A minute later, in fact, she made out the dark outline of the boat on the gray sheet of the Morelle. Then anguish stopped her breath. At every moment she thought to hear the sentinel's cry of alarm. The faintest sounds, scattered through the darkness, seemed to be the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of arms, the click of the hammers on the rifles. Yet seconds elapsed, the country slept on in sovereign peace. Dominique must have been landing on the other bank. Françoise saw nothing more. The stillness was majestic. And she heard a noise of scuffling feet, a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a falling body. Then the silence grew deeper; and, as if she had felt death passing by, she waited on, all cold, face to face with the pitch-dark night.

daybreak, shouting voices shook the mill. Old Merlier had come to open Françoise's door. She came down into the courtyard, pale and very calm. But there she gave a shudder before the


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Rh dead body of a Prussian soldier, which was stretched out near the well, on a cloak spread on the ground.

Around the body, soldiers were gesticulating, crying aloud in fury. Many of them shook their fists at the village. Meanwhile, the officer had had old Merlier called, as mayor of the township.

"See here," said he, in a voice choking with rage, "here's one of our men who has been found murdered by the river-side. . . . We must make a tremendous example, and I trust you will help us to find out the murderer."

"Anything you please," answered the miller in his phlegmatic way. "Only it will not be easy."

The officer had stooped down to throw aside a flap of the cloak that hid the dead man's face. Then a horrible wound appeared. The sentinel had been struck in the throat, and the weapon was left in the wound. It was a kitchen knife with a black handle.

"Look at this knife," said the officer to old Merlier, "perhaps it may help us in our search."

The old man gave a start. But he recovered himself immediately, and answered, without moving a muscle of his face,—

"Everybody in these parts has knives like that. . . . Maybe your man was tired of fighting, and did the job himself. Such things have been known to happen."


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70 "Shut up!" the officer cried furiously.

"I don't know what keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of the village."

His anger luckily prevented his noticing the profound change that had come over Françoise's face. She had to sit down on the stone bench, near the well. In spite of herself her eyes never left that dead body, stretched on the ground almost at her feet. He was a big, handsome fellow, who looked like Dominique, with light hair and blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart sick. She thought of how the dead man had perhaps left some sweetheart behind, who would weep for him over there, in Germany. And she recognized her knife in the dead man's throat. She had killed him.

Meanwhile the officer talked of taking terrible measures against Rocreuse, when some soldiers came up running. They had only just noticed Dominique's escape. It occasioned an extreme agitation. The officer visited the premises, looked out of the window, which had been left open, understood it all, and came back exasperated.

Old Merlier seemed very much put out at Dominique's flight.

"The idiot!" he muttered, "he spoils it all."

Françoise, who heard him, was seized with anguish. For the rest, her father did not suspect


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 TELEGRAM

TO: AMEMBASSY LONDON

FOR THE FORMER NAVAL PERSON FROM THE PRESIDENT. I WIRED HARRIMAN JUST BEFORE HE LEFT THAT THE FOLLOWING NUMBER OF TANKS WOULD BE AVAILABLE FOR EXPORT BY MONTHS AS FOLLOWS: MEDIUM TANKS OCTOBER 116 NOVEMBER 184 DECEMBER 304 JANUARY 415 FEBRUARY 425 MARCH 435 APRIL 520 MAY 810 JUNE 785 TOTAL 3994. LIGHT TANKS OCTOBER 183 NOVEMBER 180 DECEMBER 180 JANUARY 100 FEBRUARY 110 MARCH 300 APRIL 300 MAY 300 JUNE 300 TOTAL 1953. I HAVE SINCE NOTIFIED HARRIMAN THAT FIFTY MORE TANKS WILL BE AVAILABLE PRIOR TO JANUARY 1. THE NUMBER OUTLINED ABOVE ARE MINIMUM FIGURES BECAUSE I HAVE DIRECTED THAT PRODUCTION DURING THE NEXT NINE MONTHS BE INCREASED BY TEN OR FIFTEEN PERCENT. IN ADDITION TO THAT WE ARE PLANNING TO INCREASE OUR TOTAL PRODUCTION NEARLY TWOFOLD. THE TANKS AVAILABLE FOR EXPORT ARE IRRESPECTIVE OF SOURCE OF FUNDS USED TO BUILT THEM. WE ARE KEEPING ONLY A VERY MODEST NUMBER FOR OURSELVES. ROOSEVELT


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Rh death, i.e. such evil as sin, passion, &c, through worship of the undeveloped, while he obtains through worship of the developed, i.e. of Hiranyagarbha, immortality, absorption in Prakrriti.'

All these forced explanations to which the commentators have recourse, arise from the shifting views held by various authorities with regard to the value of works. Our Upanishad seems to me to propound the doctrine that works, though in themselves useless, or even mischievous, if performed with a view to any present or future rewards, are necessary as a preparatory discipline. This is or was for a long time the orthodox view. Each man was required to pass through the âsramas, or stages of student and householder, before he was admitted to the freedom of a Sannyâsin. As on a ladder, no step was to be skipped. Those who attempted to do so, were considered to have broken the old law, and in some respects they may indeed be looked upon as the true precursors of the Buddhists.

Nevertheless the opposite doctrine, that a man whose mind had become enlightened, might at once drop the fetters of the law, without performing all the tedious duties of student and householder, had strong supporters too among orthodox philosophers. Cases of such rapid conversion occur in the ancient traditions, and Bâdarâyana himself was obliged to admit the possibility of freedom and salvation without works, though maintaining the superiority of the usual course, which led on gradually from works to enlightenment and salvation. It was from an unwillingness to assent to the decided teaching of the Îsâ-upanishad that Sankara attempted to explain vidyâ, knowledge, in a limited sense, as knowledge of the gods, and not yet knowledge of Brahman. He would not admit that knowledge without works could lead to darkness, and even to greater darkness than works without knowledge. Our Upanishad seems to have dreaded libertinism, knowledge without works, more even than ritualism, works without knowledge, and its true object was to show that orthodoxy and sacrifice, though useless in themselves, must always form the preparation for higher enlightenment.

How misleading Sankara's explanation may prove, we can see from the translation of this Upanishad by Rammohun Roy. He followed Sankara implicitly, and this is the sense which he drew from the text:—

'9. Those observers of religious rites that perform only the worship of the sacred fire, and oblations to sages, to ancestors,


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2 grain, gilded with wheat, silvered with rye; where grows the amber mustard, the buckwheat white as snow, where the clover glows with a maiden's blush, where all is girdled as with a ribbon by a strip of green turf on which here and there rest quiet pear-trees.

Amid such fields years ago, by the border of a brook, on a low hill, in a grove of birches, stood a gentleman's mansion, of wood, but with a stone foundation; the white walls shone from afar, the whiter since they were relieved against the dark green of the poplars that sheltered it against the winds of autumn. The dwelling-house was not large, but it was spotlessly neat, and it had a mighty barn, and near it were three stacks of hay that could not be contained beneath the roof; one could see that the neighbourhood was rich and fertile. And one could see from the number of sheaves that up and down the meadows shone thick as stars—one could see from the number of ploughs turning up early the immense tracts of black fallow land that evidently belonged to the mansion, and were tilled well like garden beds, that in that house dwelt plenty and order. The gate wide-open proclaimed to passers-by that it was hospitable, and invited all to enter as guests.

A young gentleman had just entered in a two-horse carriage, and, after making a turn about the yard, he stopped before the porch and descended; his horses, left to themselves, slowly moved towards the gate, nibbling the grass. The mansion was deserted, for the porch doors were barred and the bar fastened with a pin. The traveller did not run to make inquiries at the farmhouse but opened the door and ran into the mansion, for he was eager to greet it. It was long since he had seen the house, for he had been studying in a distant

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320 to men, and to other creatures, without regarding the worship of celestial gods, shall enter into the dark region: and those practisers of religious ceremonies who habitually worship the celestial gods only, disregarding the worship of the sacred fire, and oblations to sages, to ancestors, to men, and to other creatures, shall enter into a region still darker than the former.

'10. It is said that adoration of the celestial gods produces one consequence; and that the performance of the worship of sacred fire, and oblations to sages, to ancestors, to men, and to other creatures, produce another: thus have we heard from learned men, who have distinctly explained the subject to us.

'11. Of those observers of ceremonies whosoever, knowing that adoration of celestial gods, as well as the worship of the sacred fire, and oblation to sages, to ancestors, to men, and to other creatures, should be observed alike by the same individual, performs them both, will, by means of the latter, surmount the obstacles presented by natural temptations, and will attain the state of the celestial gods through the practice of the former.

'12. Those observers of religious rites who worship Prakriti alone (Prakriti or nature, who, though insensible, influenced by the Supreme Spirit, operates throughout the universe) shall enter into the dark region: and those practisers of religious ceremonies that are devoted to worship solely the prior operating sensitive particle, allegorically called Brahmá, shall enter into a region much more dark than the former.

'13. It is said that one consequence may be attained by the worship of Brahmá, and another by the adoration of Prakriti. Thus have we heard from learned men, who have distincdy explained the subject to us.

'14. Of those observers of ceremonies, whatever person, knowing that the adoration of Prakriti and that of Brahmd should be together observed by the same individual, performs them both, will by means of the latter overcome indigence, and will attain the state of Prakriti, through the practice of the former.'


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, my country, thou art like health; how much thou shouldst be prized only he can learn who has lost thee. To-day thy beauty in all its splendour I see and describe, for I yearn for thee.

Holy Virgin, who protectest bright Czenstochowa and shinest above the Ostra Gate in Wilno! Thou who dost shelter the castle of Nowogrodek with its faithful folk! As by miracle thou didst restore me to health in my childhood—when, offered by my weeping mother to thy protection, I raised my dead eyelids, and could straightway walk to the threshold of thy shrine to thank God for the life returned me—so by miracle thou wilt return us to the bosom of our country. Meanwhile bear my grief-stricken soul to those wooded hills, to those green meadows stretched far and wide along the blue Niemen; to those fields painted with various Rh

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 In August 1827 the mediation of the Powers was rejected by the Porte but accepted by the Greeks. On 20th October occurred the destruction of the Turkish fleet at Navarino. Early in December the Ambassadors left Constantinople, and on the 20th of that month the Porte issued a defiant manifesto.

At a sitting of 22nd March, 1829, the London Conference sanctioned an arrangement which, though afterwards superseded, marks an important stage in the history of the question. The Ambassadors of the three Powers at Constantinople were directed to open a negotiation with the Porte upon the following bases: Greece to be governed, under the suzerainty of the Porte, by a hereditary Christian prince or chief, not a member of the reigning families of the signatories to the Treaty of 1827, to be chosen by those Powers and the Porte. The new Principality to consist of a specified portion of the mainland and specified islands, and to pay an annual tribute to the Porte of 1,500,000 Turkish piastres. The arrangement to be guaranteed in pursuance of Art. 6 of the Treaty of 1827.

Under the pressure of the war with Russia, the Porte on 15th August, 1829, declared its adherence to the Treaty of London, and conditionally to the Protocol of 22nd March. On 9th September it promised to accept all the conclusions of the Conference of London.

A new departure was taken by the Conference in 1830. On 3rd February of that year it adopted three Protocols. By the first of these it was agreed, in substance : that Greece should be wholly independent of the Porte ; that it should be governed by a prince not to be chosen from the reigning


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Rh her complicity. He shook his head, saying to her in an undertone,—

"Now we are in a fine scrape!"

"It's that rascal! it's that rascal!" cried the officer. "He must have reached the woods. . . . But he must be found for us, or the village shall pay for it."

And, addressing the miller,—

"Come, you must know where he is hiding?"

Old Merlier gave a noiseless chuckle, pointing to the wide extent, of wooded hillside.

"How do you expect to find a man in there?" said he.

"Oh! there must be holes in there that you know of. I will give you ten men. You shall be their guide."

"All right. Only it will take us a week to beat all the woods in the neighborhood."

The old man's coolness infuriated the officer. In fact, he saw the ridiculousness of this battue. It was then that he caught sight of Françoise, pale and trembling, on the bench, The young girl's anxious attitude struck him. He said nothing for an instant, looking hard at the miller and Françoise by turns.

"Isn't this man," he at last brutally asked the old man, "your daughter's lover?"

Old Merlier turned livid, and one would have thought him on the point of throwing himself


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72 upon the officer and strangling him. He drew himself up stiffly; he did not answer. Françoise put her face between her hands.

"Yes, that's it," the Prussian went on, "you or your daughter have helped him to run away. You are his accomplice. . . . For the last time, will you give him up to us?"

The miller did not answer, He had turned away, looking off into the distance, as if the officer had not been speaking to him. This put the last touch to the latter's anger.

"Very well," he said, "you shall be shot instead."

And he once more ordered out the firing party. Old Merlier still kept cool. He hardly gave a slight shrug of his shoulders; this whole drama seemed to him in rather bad taste. No doubt, he did not believe that a man was to be shot with so little ado. Then, when the squad had come, he said gravely:

"You're in earnest, then? . . . All right. If you absolutely must have some one, I will do as well as another."

But Françoise sprang up, half crazed, stammering out:

"Mercy, monsieur, don't do any harm to my father. Kill me instead. . . . It's I who helped Dominique to escape. I am the only culprit."

"Be quiet, little girl," cried old Merlier. "What are you lying for? . . . She spent the


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 sustinebo in his quae inique exercent, that is  : in 9 vindicans vindicabo: in 22 non parcet dextera mea super peccatores =  =. In verses 9, 19 the manifest corruptions may be explicable from a Semitic background. There are other Hebraisms in the text. It is true that these might have been due to the writer’s borrowings from earlier Greek works ultimately of Hebrew origin. The date of the book is also quite uncertain, though several scholars have ascribed it to the 3rd century.

Christian Sibyllines.—Critics are still at variance as to the extent of the Christian Sibyllines. It is practically agreed that vi.-viii. are of Christian origin. As for i.-ii., xi.-xiv. most writers are in favour of Christian authorship; but not so Geffcken (ed. Sibyll., 1902), who strongly insists on the Jewish origin of large sections of these books.

Apocalypses of Paul, Thomas and Stephen.—These are mentioned in the Gelasian decree. The first may possibly be the  mentioned by Epiphanius (Haer. xxxviii. 2) as current among the Cainites. It is not to be confounded with the apocalypse mentioned two sections later.

Apocalypse of Esdras.—This Greek production resembles the more ancient fourth book of Esdras in some respects. The prophet is perplexed about the mysteries of life, and questions God respecting them. The punishment of the wicked especially occupies his thoughts. Since they have sinned in consequence of Adam’s fall, their fate is considered worse than that of the irrational creation. The description of the tortures suffered in the infernal regions is tolerably minute. At last the prophet consents to give up his spirit to God, who has prepared for him a crown of immortality. The book is a poor imitation of the ancient Jewish one. It may belong, however, to the 2nd or 3rd centuries of the Christian era. See Tischendorf, Apocalypses Apocryphae, pp. 24-33.

Apocalypse of Paul.—This work (referred to by Augustine, Tractat. in Joan. 98) contains a description of the things which the apostle saw in heaven and hell. The text, as first published in the original Greek by Tischendorf (Apocalypses Apocr. 34-69), consists of fifty-one chapters, but is imperfect. Internal evidence assigns it to the time of Theodosius, i.e. about 388. Where the author lived is uncertain. Dr Perkins found a Syriac MS. of this apocalypse, which he translated into English, and printed in the Journal of the American Oriental Society, 1864, vol. viii. This was republished by Tischendorf below the Greek version in the above work. In 1893 the Latin version from one MS. was edited by M.R. James, Texts and Studies, ii. 1-42, who shows that the Latin version is the completest of the three, and that the Greek in its present form is abbreviated.

Apocalypse of John (Tischendorf, Apocalypses Apocr. 70 sqq.) contains a description of the future state, the general resurrection and judgment, with an account of the punishment of the wicked, as well as the bliss of the righteous. It appears to be the work of a Jewish Christian. The date is late, for the writer speaks of the “venerable and holy images,” as well as “the glorious and precious crosses and the sacred things of the churches” (xiv.), which points to the 5th century, when such things were first introduced into churches. It is a feeble imitation of the canonical apocalypse.

Arabic Apocalypse of Peter contains a narrative of events from the foundation of the world till the second advent of Christ. The book is said to have been written by Clement, Peter’s disciple. This Arabic work has not been printed, but a summary of the contents is given by Nicoll in his catalogue of the Oriental MSS. belonging to the Bodleian (p. 49, xlviii.). There are eighty-eight chapters. It is a late production; for Ishmaelites are spoken of, the Crusades, and the taking of Jerusalem. See Tischendorf, Apocalypses Apocr. pp. xx.-xxiv.

The Apocalypse of the Virgin, containing her descent into hell, is not published entire, but only several portions of it from Greek MSS. in different libraries, by Tischendorf in his Apocalypses Apocryphae, pp. 95 sqq.; James, Texts and Studies, ii. 3. 109-126.

Apocalypse of Sedrach.—This late apocalypse, which M. R. James assigns to the 10th or 11th century, deals with the subject of intercession for sinners and Sedrach’s unwillingness to die. See James, Texts and Studies, ii. 3. 127-137.

Apocalypse of Daniel.—See Vassiliev’s Anecdota Graeco-Byzantina (Moscow, 1893), pp. 38-44; Uncanonical Books of the Old Testament (Venice, 1901), pp. 237 sqq., 387 sqq.

The Revelations of Bartholomew.—Dulaurier published from a Parisian Sahidic MS., subjoining a French translation, what is termed a fragment of the apocryphal revelations of St Bartholomew (Fragment des révélations apocryphes de Saint Barthélemy, &c., Paris, 1835), and of the history of the religious communities founded by St Pachomius. After narrating the pardon obtained by Adam, it is said that the Son ascending from Olivet prays the Father on behalf of His apostles; who consequently receive consecration from the Father, together with the Son and Holy Spirit—Peter being made archbishop of the universe. The late date of the production is obvious.

Questions of St Bartholomew.—See Vassiliev, ''Anec. Graeco-Byzantina'' (1893), pp. 10-22. The introduction, which is wanting in the Greek MS., has been supplied by a Latin translation from the Slavonic version (see pp. vii.-ix.). The book contains disclosures by Christ, the Virgin and Beliar and much of the subject-matter is ancient. APOCATASTASIS, a Greek word, meaning “re-establishment,” used as a technical scientific term for a return to a previous position or condition. APOCRYPHAL LITERATURE. The history of the earlier usage of the term “Apocrypha” (from , to hide) is not free from obscurity. We shall therefore enter at once on a short account of the origin of this literature in Judaism, of its adoption by early Christianity, of the various meanings which the term “apocryphal” assumed in the course of its history, and having so done we shall proceed to classify and deal with the books that belong to this literature. The word most generally denotes writings which claimed to be, or were by certain sects regarded as, sacred scriptures although excluded from the canonical scriptures.

Apocrypha in Judaism.—Certain circles in Judaism, as the Essenes in Palestine (Josephus, B. J. ii. 8. 7) and the Therapeutae (Philo, De Vita Contempl. ii. 475, ed. Mangey) in Egypt possessed a secret literature. But such literature was not confined to the members of these communities, but had been current among the Chasids and their successors the Pharisees. To this literature belong essentially the apocalypses which were published in fast succession from Daniel onwards. These works bore, perforce, the names of ancient Hebrew worthies in order to procure them a hearing among the writers’ real contemporaries. To reconcile their late appearance with their claims to primitive antiquity the alleged author is represented as “shutting up and sealing” (Dan. xii. 4, 9) the book, until the time of its fulfilment had arrived; for that it was not designed for his own generation but for far-distant ages (1 Enoch i. 2, cviii. 1.; Ass. Mos. i. 16, 17). It is not improbable that with many Jewish enthusiasts this literature was more highly treasured than the canonical scriptures. Indeed, we have a categorical statement to this effect in 4 Ezra xiv. 44 sqq., which tells how Ezra was inspired to dictate the sacred scriptures which had been destroyed in the overthrow of Jerusalem: “In forty days they wrote ninety-four books: and it came to pass when the forty days were fulfilled that the Highest spake, saying: the first that thou hast written publish openly that the worthy and unworthy may read it; but keep the seventy last that thou mayst deliver them only to such as be wise among the people; for in them is the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom and the stream of knowledge.” Such esoteric books are apocryphal in the original conception of the term. In due course the Jewish authorities were forced to draw up a canon or book of sacred scriptures, and mark them off from those which claimed to be such without justification.

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Rh night locked up in her room, monsieur. She lies, I assure you."

"No, I am not lying," the young girl replied ardently. "I climbed down out of the window, I urged Dominique to fly. . . . It's the truth, the only truth. . . ."

The old man turned very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she was not lying, and this story appalled him. Ah! these children, with their hearts, how they spoiled everything! Then he grew angry.

"She's crazy, don't believe her. She is telling you stupid stories. . . . Come, let's have done with it."

She tried to protest again. She knelt down, she clasped her hands. The officer looked quietly on at this heartrending struggle.

"Good God!" he said at last, "I take your father, because I haven't got the other one. . . . Try and find the other one, and your father shall go free."

For a moment she looked at him, her eyes staring wide at the atrocity of this proposal.

"It's horrible," she murmured. "Where do you expect me to find Dominique at this time? He's gone; I don't know where he is."

"Well, choose. Him or your father."

"Oh! my God! how can I choose? But even if I knew where Dominique was, I could not choose! . . . It is my heart you are breaking.


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 families of the signatories to the Treaty of 1837; that the land boundaries of the new state should be somewhat withdrawn from the frontier as defined by the Protocol of 22nd March, 1829; that certain islands should belong to Greece.

The second Protocol decides that Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg should be requested to become Sovereign Prince of Greece.

The third Protocol provides for religious equality, and the continued enjoyment by the Catholic religion of certain privileges in the new State.

The Prince accepted on 11th February; but, the Conference having declined, on 20th February, to enlarge the continental boundaries of the new Principality, or to stipulate for the good treatment of Cahdia and Samos, withdrew his acceptance in letters dated 15th and 21st May.

A Protocol of 26th September, 1831, decided to vary the frontier again, so as to follow the line proposed on 22nd March, 1829.

On 13th February, 1832, the Conference agreed to offer the throne to Otho, second son of the King of Bavaria, and a Protocol of 26th April accedes to the wish of the King of Bavaria that the Sovereign of Greece should assume the title of King.

At a sitting of the Conference on 7th May, 1832, a Convention constituting the new kingdom was signed by the representatives of the three Powers, and by the representatives of the King of Bavaria sub spe rati. At a sitting of the 30th June the ratifications were exchanged, and a note on the


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Rh city and had at last finished his course. He ran in and gazed with eager emotion upon the ancient walls, his old friends. He sees the same furniture, the same hangings with which he had loved to amuse himself from babyhood, but they seemed less beautiful and not so large as of old. And the same portraits hung upon the walls. Here Kosciuszko, in his Cracow coat, with his eyes raised to heaven, held his two-handed sword; such was he when on the steps of the altar he swore that with this sword he would drive the three powers from Poland or himself would fall upon it. Farther on sat Rejtan, in Polish costume, mourning the loss of liberty; in his hands he held a knife with the point turned against his breast, and before him lay Phaedo and The Life of Cato. Still farther on Jasinski, a fair and melancholy youth, and his faithful comrade Korsak stand side by side on the entrenchments of Praga, on heaps of Muscovites, hewing down the enemies of their country—but around them Praga is already burning.

He recognised even the tall old musical clock in its wooden case near the chamber door, and with childish joy he pulled at the string, in order to hear Dombrowski's old mazurka.

He ran about the whole house and searched for the room that had been his own when he was a child, ten years before. He entered, drew back, and surveyed the walls with astonished eyes: could this room be a woman's lodgings? Who could live here? His old uncle was unmarried, and his aunt had dwelt for years in St. Petersburg. Could that be the housekeeper's chamber? A piano? On it music and books; all abandoned in careless confusion: sweet disorder!

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74. . . I had rather die at once. Yes, it would be soonest over so. Kill me, I beg of you, kill me. . . ."

The officer at last grew impatient at this scene of despair and tears. He cried out,—

"I've had enough of this! I'm willing to be good-natured, I consent to give you two hours. . . . If your sweetheart isn't here in two hours, your father shall pay for him."

And he had old Merlier taken to the room which had been used for Dominique's prison. The old man asked for some tobacco, and fell to smoking. No emotion was to be detected in his impassive face. Only, when he was alone, two big tears ran slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child; how she suffered!

Françoise had stayed in the middle of the courtyard. Some Prussian soldiers passed by, laughing. Some of them called out to her, jokes which she did not understand. She stared at the door through which her father had just disappeared. And, with a slow movement, she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting.

The officer turned on his heel, repeating:

"You have two hours. Try to make good use of them."

She had two hours. This sentence kept buzzing in her head. Then, mechanically, she went out of the courtyard, she walked straight before


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Rh her. Whither should she go? What should she do? She did not even try to decide, because she felt convinced of the uselessness of her efforts. Yet she would have liked to find Dominique. They would have come to an understanding together, they might perhaps have hit upon an expedient. And, amid the confusion of her thoughts, she went down to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam, at a place where there were some large stones. Her feet led her under the first willow, at the corner of the field. As she bent down, she saw a pool of blood that made her turn pale. That was clearly the place. And she followed Dominique's tracks in the trodden grass; he must have run, a line of long strides was to be seen cutting through the field cornerwise. Then, farther on, she lost the tracks; but, in a neighboring field, she thought she found them again. This brought her to the outskirts of the forest, where all traces were wiped out.

Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then, remembering that her time was running out, she got up again. How long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes? half an hour? She had lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where, one afternoon, they had eaten filberts together.


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76 She went to the copse and searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melancholy tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hollow in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the use of looking for him? she would not find him; and, little by little, her desire to find him grew furious, she walked on faster. The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly struck her. From that moment she pushed on with upturned eyes, and, that he might know she was near, she called out to him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her, a breath of air passing through the branches made her think he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to lead him away and have him shot? Oh! no, she would not mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf, weeping, repeating aloud,—

"My God! my God! why am I here?"

She was crazy to have come. And, as if seized with fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three times she took the wrong path, and she thought she should not find


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Rh the mill again, when she came out into a field, just opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she stopped. Was she going to return alone?

As she stood there, a voice called to her softly,—

"Françoise! Françoise!"

And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of a ditch. Just God! she had found him! So heaven wished his death? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the ditch.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she said.

"Ah! what's going on?"

She looked down, she stammered out,—

"Why, nothing; I was anxious, I wanted to see you."

Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then all was going well; and he added, laughing,—

"Our wedding will be for this day week, that's all."

Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.

"But what's the matter with you? You are keeping something from me."


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78 "No, I swear to you. I ran to come. . . ."

He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the forest. She held him back. She was trembling.

"Listen, perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here, all the same. . . . Nobody is looking for you, you're not afraid of anything."

"Françoise, you are keeping something from me," he repeated.

Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only she had rather know that he was near; and she stammered out other reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides, he believed the French would return. Troops had been seen over Sauval way.

"Ah! let them be in a hurry, let them be here as soon as possible!" he muttered fervently.

At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven. The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright; it was two hours since she had left the mill.

"Listen," she said rapidly, "if we should need you, I will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief."

And she left him, running, while Dominique, very anxious, stretched himself out on the edge


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Rh of the ditch, to keep his eye on the mill. As she was just turning into Rocreuse, Françoise met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country. He bowed to her, he had just seen the miller in the midst of the Prussians; then, crossing himself and mumbling some disconnected words, he went on his way.

"The two hours are over," said the officer when Françoise appeared.

Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept, fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of seeing the French return had grown in her, and, while bewailing her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army. Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!

"Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more. . . . You can surely grant me one hour!"

But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might proceed quietly with the old man's execution. Then a frightful conflict went on in Françoise's heart. She could not let her father be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first; and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself walked into the courtyard.

The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as if no one but Françoise had


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80 been there, stepped up to her quietly, a little sternly.

"That was wrong," said he. "Why didn't you bring me back with you? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. . . . After all, here I am."

was three o'clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled the sky, the tail of some not distant thunderstorm. This yellow sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse, so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Dominique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey to abominable anguish. She would not leave the courtyard, in spite of her father's urging. She was waiting for the French. But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to change the frightful catastrophe.

Nevertheless, at about three, the Prussians made preparations to go. A minute before, the officer had closeted himself with Dominique, as on the preceding day. Françoise saw that the young man's life was being decided on. Then


text: Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Baden (4.)


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Apocalyptic Literature


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 part of Bavaria, with reference to the guarantee of a loan and some minor matters, together with the reply of the three Powers, was placed on record.

The land boundary of the new State was fixed by the following 'Arrangement,' made at Constantinople on 21st July, 1832, between the three Powers and the Porte, and destined to remain in force for nearly half a century :—

The Representatives of the three Powers, parties to the Treaty of London of the 6th of July, 1827, namely, the Right Honourable Sir Stratford Canning, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of His Britannick Majesty on a Special Mission to the Ottoman Sublime Porte; the Sieur Appolinaire Bouteneff, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of His Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias; and the Sieur Jacques Edouard, Baron Burignot de Varenne, Chargé d'Affaires of His Majesty the King of the French, having made known to the Sublime Ottoman Porte, the changes which it was necessary to make in the frontier of Greece, and having communicated to it the object of the instructions, and of the powers with which they were furnished, to propose to it a definitive boundary line, upon condition of compensating, by an equitable indemnity, the losses which might result therefrom:— the Sublime Porte, animated with the desire of consolidating the arrangements to which, out of consideration for the three Allied Courts, and relying on their sincere intentions, it had previously agreed, has consented to enter upon a negotiation for this purpose, and has charged therewith two of its Ministers, namely: His Excellency Mustapha Behdjet Effendi, Ex-Cazesker of Roumelia, at the present time first Physician of His Highness, and His Excellency Elhadj Mehemed Akif Efendi, present Reis Efendi.

The above-mentioned Plenipotentiaries, filled with the sentiments of their respective Governments, and having no other object in view than that of terminating the Greek affair in a way that shall be durable, and calculated to prevent all further discussion on this question, have met several times for this salutary purpose; and the complete result of their conferences has been recorded in the present document, exchanged between the parties as the instrument of their final transaction.


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480 others into the dark back rooms of their dwelling, intending to slip out that way. But as he entered the darkness there, he glimpsed a moving figure in the blackness. Instantly he leaped at the other, grasped him by the throat.

"It's a spy!" he grated. "If they've found out what we're planning, we're sunk." And he rasped in the language of Dordona to his prisoner, "One shout and you die."

"Release me—I will not shout," gasped a voice.

"Lurain!" he exclaimed. "What in the world——"

He dragged the girl over to one of the windows, where the moonlight illuminated her white, strange face and distended eyes.

"What are you doing, spying on us?" Clark demanded, his face hardening as he remembered.

"No, I came to fulfill the promise I made you, to lead you down to the holy lake!" she gasped. Her words poured forth in a torrent as Clark stood in stunned surprize. "Stannar, why did you tell my father Kimor you wished to descend to the lake? That was madness!"

"But you had promised me that you would see that I got down the shaft," Clark said bewilderedly.

"You do not understand," Lurain told him. "I made that promise, yes—but what I meant was that I would secretly take you down the shaft; for if my father knew of it he would slay us instantly for the sacrilege—yes, even me, his daughter. I thought you understood that and would be silent about the lake until I could fulfill my promise."

"Lord,* I've misjudged you, Lurain," Clark told her impulsively. "Come to think of it, it was rather asinine of me to blurt out my whole business without making sure how things stood. But I hadn't had time to think, I guess, in the rush of our escape."

"And I had to pretend ignorance when you reproached me," she said. "But I have come now, Stannar. I shall fulfill my promise and take you down to the cavern of the Lake of Life. The sin will be on my head, not on my father and people. And my sin will be expiated, for surely the Guardians will slay us down there for our sacrilege."

She was trembling violently, though her voice was steady. Clark Stannard stared at her, frowning.

"You believe that?—believe we're both going to die down there, Lurain? And yet you're willing to keep your promise?"

"Yes," the girl told him. "I gave you my word, and you brought warning to Dordona as you promised. My death matters not,"

Clark suddenly put his arms around her, and as he held her quivering figure he could feel the pounding of her heart.

"Lurain, you're not going to die—neither of us will die," he told her reassuringly. "There are no Guardians down there—that is legend only. Even if they were there, I have my weapon."

She said nothing, but he knew she was convinced of the futility of all human weapons against those mysterious warders. He turned to his four men, who had listened tensely in the dark room.

"You'll stay here," Clark told them. "I should be back by morning with the waters from the lake, if all goes well."

"Why don't we go with you?" Blacky demanded.

But when Lurain understood the question, she shook her head. "No, I promised but to take you, Stannar. Your men would only be destroyed down there as we will be, and their help will be needed here when Thargo comes to attack Dordona."

"Remember, you're bound by my W.T.—6


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Rh she clasped her hands and prayed. Old Merlier, beside her, maintained his mute and rigid attitude of an old peasant who does not struggle with the fatality of facts.

"Oh, my God! oh, my God!" stammered Françoise, "they are going to kill him."

The miller drew her close to him and took her upon his knees, like a child.

Just then the officer came out, while, behind him, two men led Dominique.

"Never, never!" cried the latter. "I am ready to die."

"Think of it well," replied the officer. "This service that you refuse us will be done for us by another. I offer you your life, I am generous. . . . It is only to be our guide to Montredon, through the woods. There must be paths."

Dominique made no answer.

"Then you are still obstinate?"

"Kill me, and let us have done with it," he answered.

Françoise, with hands clasped, implored him from across the yard. She had forgotten all, she would have urged him to some piece of cowardice. But old Merlier grasped her hands, that the Prussians might not see her delirious gesture.

"He is right," he murmured, "it's better to die."

The firing party was there. The officer was


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82 waiting for a moment of weakness on Dominique's part. He still counted on winning him over. There was a dead silence. From the distance were heard violent claps of thunder. A sultry heat weighed upon the country; and, in the midst of this silence, a shriek burst forth,—

"The French! the French!"

It was really they. On the Sauval road, on the outskirts of the wood, you could make out the line of red trousers. Inside the mill there was an extraordinary hubbub. The Prussian soldiers ran about with guttural exclamations. For the rest, not a shot had been fired yet.

"The French! the French!" screamed Françoise, clapping her hands.

She was like mad. She had broken loose from her father's embrace, and she laughed, her arms waving in the air. At last they were coming and they had come in time, since Dominique was still there, erect!

A terrible firing that burst upon her ears like a thunder-stroke made her turn round. The officer had just muttered:

"First of all, let us finish this job."

And, pushing Dominique up against the wall of a shed with his own hands, he had ordered, "Fire!" When Françoise turned round, Dominique was lying on the ground, his breast pierced with twelve bullets.

She did not weep; she stood there in a stupor.


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Rh Her eyes were fixed, and she went and sat down under the shed, a few steps from the body. She looked at it; at moments she made a vague and childlike movement with her hand. The Prussians had laid hold of old Merlier as a hostage.

It was a fine fight. Rapidly the officer stationed his men, recognizing that he could not beat a retreat without being overpowered. It was as well to sell his life dearly. Now it was the Prussians who defended the mill and the French that made the attack. The firing began with unheard-of violence. For half an hour it did not stop. Then a dull explosion was heard, and a shot broke off one of the main branches of the hundred-year-old elm. The French had cannon. A battery, drawn up just above the ditch in which Dominique had hidden, swept the main street of Rocreuse. From this moment the struggle could not last long.

Ah! the poor mill! Shot pierced it through and through. Half the roofing was carried away. Two walls crumbled. But it was, above all, on the side toward the Morelle that the ruin done was piteous. The ivy, torn from the shattered walls, hung in rags; the river swept away débris of every sort, and through a breach you could see Françoise's room, with her bed, the white curtains of which were carefully drawn. Shot upon shot, the old wheel received two cannon-balls, and gave one last groan: the paddles


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84 were washed away by the current, the carcass collapsed. The mill had breathed out its soul.

Then the French stormed the place. There was a furious fight with side-arms. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the cutthroat hollow of the valley was filled with killed. The broad meadows looked grim, with their great single trees, their rows of poplars streaking them with shadows. To the right and left, the forests were like the walls of a circus, shutting in the combatants; while the springs, the fountains, the running waters, gave forth sounds of sobbing, amid the panic of the countryside.

Under the shed, Françoise had not stirred, crouched down opposite Dominique's body. Old Merlier was killed outright by a spent bullet. Then, when the Prussians had been annihilated, and the mill was burning, the French captain was the first man to enter the courtyard. From the beginning of the campaign it was the only success he had won. And, all aglow, drawing up his tall figure to its full height, he laughed with his gracious air of a fine cavalier. And, seeing Françoise, imbecile, between the dead bodies of her husband and father, amidst the smoking ruins of the mill, he gallantly saluted her with his sword, crying out:

"Victory! victory!"


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Rh promise to help these Blacks against Thargo," Clark told his men, "whether or not I return."

Then Clark brought from his pack the leaden flask he had brought so far, along such a dangerous trail in preparation for this time. He paused then for a moment, before the silent quartet.

"Good luck, boys, if I don't come back," he said.

"The same to you, chief, and it's me thinks you're going to need it," muttered Mike Shinn, as they shook hands.

"We go out the back of this dwelling," whispered Lurain, to Clark. "Follow me—and be very silent."

He emerged with her into the checkered moonlight and shadow of one of Dordona's silent streets. The girl, he saw now, carried a short, pointed metal bar. She led by deserted alleys of crumbling ruins, not toward the great temple, but toward a ruined, deserted stone building a quarter-mile from the great dome.

followed her wonderingly into the ruin. She led across a room strewn with debris of crumbling stone, and knelt on the corner of the stone floor. He knelt puzzledly beside her, turning his tiny flashlight beam on the weathered blocks of the floor.

"Dig out these blocks," whispered Lurain, pointing to the floor. "I will hold the light."

"But I don't " Clark began, then halted and obeyed. It was evident that Lurain knew what she was about.

With the metal bar she had brought, he soon dug out four of the big blocks. There was revealed beneath them a dark, burrow-like opening in the earth, the mouth of a horizontal underground passage. Lurain dropped quickly down into this, and Clark followed. Turning his beam, he discovered the passage was shoulder-high, extending away through the solid rock.

"This passage," Lurain whispered, "was dug secretly many generations ago, by plotters in the city who wished to reach the pit and go down the stairs to the Lake of Life. They were of the rebels of that time who finally left Dordona to found the city K'Lamm. They could not enter the pit from the temple, for the stair-head there is always guarded, as you saw. So they dug this passage, opening into the pit below.

"Just as they finished their sacrilegious work," she continued, "their plot was detected. They were slain before they could make use of the passage, and it was blocked up and its existence kept secret. But the rulers of Dordona have known of it, and as daughter of the present ruler I knew of it. It is the one way we can enter the pit, for if we tried to enter it in the temple, the guards there would kill us at once."

Clark's hopes bounded. "Let's get on, then."

He led the way, flashing his beam ahead. As they advanced in the passage, they heard a dull roar that became louder and louder. Clark knew it was the sound of the cataract falling into the sacred shaft, and his excitement increased. Lurain, pressing on behind him, was shivering.

They reached the end of the passage. They crouched, petrified by the stupefying view ahead. The opening in which they crouched was twenty feet below the floor of the temple, in the rock side of the stupendous pit. Right below and outside this opening lay the narrow steps of the spiraling stone stair.

Out there in the pit, not ten yards from them, there gleamed in the faint light from above the falling waters of the thundering cataract, the river from far away that tumbled headlong down into this W. T.—7


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26 Wednesday morning found us crossing the mouth of the Gulf of California, or the Mar de Cortez, as the Spaniards termed it, rain pouring down, the sea rough, and many on board sick, the writer among the number. Accursed be the memory of the man who found the ocean first! At 2, we passed Cape Corrientes, and when night came down with an almost impenetrable pall of darkness on the heaving waste of waters, we were within seventy-five miles of the entrance of the Bay of Manzanillo.

Slowly the great steamer crept along the rock-bound, dangerous coast, feeling her way cautiously as she went, and at 2 o'clock on Thursday morning, almost a week from our leaving San Francisco, we felt that we were once more in smooth water, and the loud report of the steamer's gun conveyed to us the glad tidings that we had entered the harbor of Manzanillo, and finished that portion of our journey comprised in the voyage down the Pacific. The Custom-House officials, Governor Cuerva and staff, and other officers and citizens, came on board at once to receive Mr. Seward, congratulated him on his arrival, and tendered him in behalf of the Republic and its citizens, the hospitalities of the country.

At day-break our baggage was sent ashore and passed at once, unopened, through the Custom House, and the party were then conveyed to the beach in boats carried through the surf to the shore on men's backs to the solid land. "We stood at last on the soil of Mexico, saw the steamer sail away through the storm and disappear in the distance, then turned our faces eastward and looked about upon the strange land to which we had come, and the strange scenes and strange faces which surrounded us.


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Apocatastasis


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 It is agreed that:—

1. With respect to boundary; on the eastern side, the extreme point of separation of the two States shall be fixed at the mouth of the little river which flows near the village of Gradiza: the frontier line shall ascend this river to its source, shall thence reach the chain of Mount Othryx, leaving to Greece the passage of Klomo, provided the crest of that chain be not passed: thence it shall follow, in a westerly direction, the crest of the same chain along the whole extent thereof, and especially the peak of Varibovo, in order to attain the height which, under the denomination of Veluchi, forms the point of connexion of the three great chains of mountains of the country. From this height the line shall continue, adapting itself as much as possible to the salient features of the country, across the valley of the Aspropotamos to the Gulf of Arta, terminating at that gulf between Coprina and Menidi, in such manner, as that in any case, the bridge of Tartarina, the defile and the tower of Macrinoros, shall be comprised within the limits of Greece, and that the bridge of Coracos, and the salt springs of Coprina, shall be left to the Ottoman Porte. Thus, the shore of the Gulf of Arta to the north and west of the point where the boundary line meets its waters, will be retained by the Ottoman Empire, and the shore of this gulf to the south and west of the line is assigned to the state of Greece, with the exception of the fort of Punta, which will continue to belong to the Porte, with a radius of territory which shall not be less than half an hour, nor more than an hour.

Nevertheless, as the Representatives, full of deference for the wish which has been expressed in the name of His Highness, relative to the portion of the district of Zeitoun, situate to the left of the Sperchius, having agreed that reference should be made on the subject to the Conference of London, upon the express condition that the decision and execution of the measures consequent thereupon, should not be retarded thereby; it has become necessary to provide for the possible contingency of that portion of the territory of Zeitoun remaining to the Ottoman Empire.

The boundary line to the east will in that case commence at the mouth of the river Sperchius, and will run up its left bank to the point of contact of the districts of Zeitoun and of Patradjik ; thence it will reach to the summit of the chain of the Othryx, following the common boundary of those two districts, and the most direct line in the event of that common boundary not attaining the summit of the chain of the Othryx.


text: Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Badger


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 It will continue in the manner before-mentioned, in order to terminate at the Gulf of Arta.

2. With respect to the indemnity, it remains fixed at the sum of forty millions of Turkish piastres, provided the portions of the district of Zeitoun, situate to the left of the river Sperchius, shall have been, in consequence of the decision of the Conference of London, definitively assigned to the Greek State.

If, on the other hand, in consequence of the decision of the Conference of London, those portions of the district of Zeitoun are to continue to belong to the Ottoman Empire, the indemnity which the Porte will receive, remains fixed at the sum of thirty millions of Turkish piastres.

3. The Commissioners of the three Courts shall immediately proceed to the marking out of the boundary now settled. A Commissioner shall be appointed by the Sublime Porte, to join in the labours of this demarcation. It is clearly understood that no delay shall arise in this operation, whether from the absence of one or two of the Commissioners, or from any other cause. A Commissioner appointed by the Greek Government, may co-operate in the same labours, which should be completed in the space of six months, dating from this day. In case of difference of opinion between the Commissioners, the question shall be equitably resolved by a majority of voices.

4. The indemnity which is due to the Sublime Porte in virtue of the present arrangement, shall be paid on the 31st of December of the present year, on which day, in conformity with the following Article, all the territories, without exception, which are to constitute Greece, shall be evacuated, if not sooner, by the Troops and Authorities of the Sublime Porte. This payment shall be effected at Constantinople on the 31st of December, 1832, at the rate of exchange of the day at the signing of this instrument, by Drafts on London, Paris, Vienna, or Petersburgh: and the Porte shall be officially informed on this matter on the arrival of the formal confirmation of this transaction.

5. On the 31st of December of the present year, or sooner if possible, the territories which form the object of the present arrangement, shall be entirely evacuated by the Ottoman Troops and Authorities. With respect to the territories previously assigned to Greece, and which are still occupied by the Sublime Porte, they also shall be evacuated within the same period; so that, on the day specified, the evacuation of all the territories, without exception, which are to constitute Greece, shall have been in every instance completely effected.


text: Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Badia y Leblich, Domingo


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 6. The fort of Punta, as has been said above, being intended to remain to the Porte to complete the means of defence of Prévésa, and in order the better to secure the safety of its commerce, they shall only be permitted therein a garrison sufficient for the occupation of that post; it is understood, that the Ottoman Authorities will not oppose any obstacle to the passage of Greek Vessels; and, excepting Customs' dues, and other imposts which would be due to the Sublime Porte in cases where vessels may put into Punta, Prévésa, or other Turkish Ports of the Gulf of Arta, the Authorities shall demand nothing for the passage.

7. A term of eighteen months, dating from the day on which the labours of the demarcation shall have been completed, is accorded to such individuals as may desire to quit the territories which form the object of the present arrangement, and to sell their estates. This term of eighteen months may, in special cases, and under unforeseen circumstances, be prolonged some months, and a commission of arbitration shall determine on the validity of these cases for exception, and shall assist in causing the sales to be effected at a fair price.

The same advantages are accorded to the inhabitants of the Island of Eubea and of Attica, and to the proprietors of Thebes, who would, at the present day, be in the receipt of their rightful revenues, if that district were occupied by the Ottoman troops, at the date of the assent of the Porte to the preceding arrangements of the 3rd of February, 1830.

It is understood that these individuals will alike be allowed to dispose, and within the same period, of any beneficial interest which they may have, either as tenants, or as hereditary administrators, in the vacoufs, the whole of which is transferred to the Greek State.

8. In conformity with the preceding stipulations, the Government of the new King of Greece will have the power of entering into negotiation for the purpose of regulating its relations of commerce and navigation with the Sublime Porte on a principle of reciprocity ; and agents duly accredited on either side shall be received in the ports of Turkey and Greece, according to the usual forms, so that Ottoman subjects shall have an acknowledged right to traffick at their will in the State of Greece, and that, on their side, the Greeks shall cease to have recourse to foreign protection for frequenting the ports and trading-towns of the Ottoman Empire.

The undersigned Plenipotentiaries of the three Courts, and