The General was lazily smoking a cigar and reading the _Novosti_ in his own well-furnished room, when a man-servant entered, and, after saluting, said, “A young girl desires to see your Excellency. I told her you could not give audience to any one.” “Idiot! Why did you send her away?” “She was only a Jewess, your Excellency. But she is still here. She’s the daughter of the financier Prèhznev, of Petersburg, who was sent to the mines.” “Prèhznev!” repeated the General, in surprise. “Ah! Show her in—and—and see we are not disturbed, Ivanovitch—you understand.” “Yes, your Excellency.” And the man saluted and disappeared. In a few seconds Mascha, pale and trembling, advanced timidly into the room. The Governor was standing near the door when she entered, and as he closed it after her he pushed the small brass bolt into its socket. Then he turned sharply, and asked— “Well, girl, what do you want?” “Your Excellency,” said Mascha, bowing with that fawning humility which every Hebrew is bound to show towards Government officials, “I have been sent by our good _ispravnik_, Ivan Osnavitsch.” “Very kind of him to select beauty for me and send it to my door, I’m sure,” remarked the General, under his breath. Continuing, Mascha briefly explained that she and her mother were starving, and that her parent was dying of sheer want. “But you are a Jewess,” he said sternly. “The relief which my Imperial Master has entrusted me to distribute is only for Orthodox Russians.” “Have pity; have mercy upon us,” she cried earnestly. “I know that I, a Jewess, have no right to ask a favour of your Excellency, but my dear mother is dying!” “I cannot prevent that, my pretty one,” he said more kindly, stroking her fair, dishevelled hair. With a quick movement he placed his arm around her waist, and grasping her tightly, pressed her against his breast, adding, “Come, I must have a kiss!” Before she could evade him, she felt his hot breath upon her face, and his lips pressed her soft, dimpled cheek. Trembling with fear and flushed with indignation, she struggled and succeeded in freeing herself from his hateful clutches. But she did not upbraid him, although her face became more woeful than before. Frowning, he regarded her with an expression of displeasure, saying: “The wife and child of a political exile classed among dangerous Nihilists can expect no relief from His Majesty’s private purse.” “It is to your sympathy that I appeal,” Mascha exclaimed imploringly. “Although my people and yours are of different creed, we all adore the same Father, our Tzar.” “And Isaac Prèhznev was sent to Siberia by _étape_ for conspiring against his life! Curious adoration, eh?” “It’s false!” she cried hotly. “He was wrongly accused; denounced by some unknown enemy, and sent straight to Irkutsk without any chance of defence.”