"You fiends!" she cried. "You have shot my Gustave! He is dead--_dead!_" "There was no doubt, I suppose, as to his identity?" asked the General. "None, your Excellency. Some papers found upon the body have been forwarded to us with the report." "Then let the girl be shot also. She aided him in the manufacture of the bombs." "Shot!" I gasped, utterly staggered. "What do you mean, General? You will shoot a poor defenceless girl, and in face of my demand for her protection. I have promised her marriage," I cried in desperation, "and you condemn her to execution!" "My Emperor has given me orders to quell the rebellion, and all who make bombs for use against the Government must die. His Majesty gave me orders to execute all such," said the official sternly. "You, sir, will have safe conduct to whatever place you wish to visit. Take the girl away." "But, General, reflect a moment whether this is not----" "I never reflect, sir," he cried angrily, and rising from his chair with outstretched hand, he snapped: "How much of my time are you going to lose over the wench? Take her away, and let it be done at once." The poor condemned girl, blanched to the lips and trembling from head to foot, turned quickly to me, and in a few words in French thanked me, and again kissed my hand, with the brief words, "Farewell; you have done your best. God will reward you!" Then, with one accord, we all turned, and together went mournfully forth into the street. A lump arose in my throat, for I saw, as the General pointed out, that my passport did not extend beyond my own person. Luba was a Russian subject, and therefore under the Russian martial law. Of a sudden, however, just as we emerged into the roadway, the unfortunate girl, at whose side I still remained, turned and, raising her tearful face to mine, kissed me. Then, before any of us were aware of her intention, she again turned, wrenched herself free, and rushed back into the room where the General was still sitting. The Cossacks dashed after her, but ere they reached the chamber there was a terrific explosion, the air was filled with débris, the back of the building was torn completely out, and when a few minutes later I summoned courage to enter and peep within the wrecked room, I saw a scene that I dare not describe here in cold print. Suffice it to say that the bodies of Luba and General Stepan Krasiloff were unrecognisable, save for the shreds of clothing that still remained. Luba had used her bomb in revenge for Gustave's death, and she had freed Russia of the heartless tyrant who had condemned her to die. But the man Hartmann--the German "patriot," whose underlings had stirred up the revolt--was already on his way back to Berlin. As in France and Russia, so also in England, German Secret agents are, we have discovered, at work stirring strife in many directions.