A great high-roofed square chamber, enamelled entirely in white and picked out with gold. At one end a high, red-carpeted daïs with the throne, behind which hung a full-length portrait of Prince Ferdinand. Upon an escutcheon above, the Bulgarian lion on a crimson shield. Below the empty throne, a long red-covered table, where sat the President, a short, grey-haired little man, who from time to time rang a musical gong; and in the arena, on a scarlet carpet, rows of horse-shoe benches half filled by deputies. On the right, at a table placed at an angle, sat the Ministers. First was Monsieur Petkoff, the Prime Minister, the most prominent man in Bulgaria, and who has, alas! since shared the fate of his friend the late Stambouloff; next Dr. Stancioff, the newly appointed Minister for Foreign Affairs; the Minister of War in a dark blue uniform with a white cross at his throat; and the Ministers of Justice, Commerce, and Finance. Above, around three sides of the huge white-and-gold hall, the galleries were crowded by the public, while over all big arc lamps shed their white brilliancy. With us in the diplomats’ gallery sat the Prince’s confidential secretary, M. Dobrovitch, the German Minister, the representatives of Turkey and Roumania, Colonel H. du Cane, the British military attaché, and numbers of other diplomats. The House was silent. Every ear was strained to catch the Premier’s words, for it was he who was now speaking. A rather short, grey-bearded figure, just past the prime, whose left hand as he gesticulated only showed a stump. He lost it at the Shipka, and as patriot and politician he was leader of his party—a party of progress, that has been four years in power with an overwhelming majority. For the past four hours he had been speaking fluently, easily, without interruption, forecasting the future policy of Bulgaria—the policy which is designed to lead the country to prosperity. Bulgaria had long waited for this, and every word was now being listened to with rapt attention. On those benches below sat representatives of the people, men of every class—lawyers, shopkeepers, peasants in their white linen or brown homespun suits, and even Turks. Surely this Sobranje is essentially a representative gathering. Now and then came a spontaneous outburst of applause, very marked when the Prime Minister dwelt upon the cordial relations with Roumania and their identical aims with regard to Macedonia. Everyone applauded—all save one little section of benches on the extreme left—a mere handful of men—the Opposition. So small are they that they really do not seem to count. Nobody took any notice of them. With their backs to the holy ikon of burnished gold and highly finished religious pictures, they sat facing the Ministers, who were, of course, ever confronted by the emblem of their faith. [Illustration: GEN. MICHAEL SAVOFF, Bulgarian Minister of War.]