"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!" The tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, "Who killed this man." "I," answered Michael. "Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier." "That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!" "Ivan, the traitor?" "Yes." "But who are you, then?" "Michael Strogoff." "And you come?" "For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!" MRS. TREE[79] LAURA E. RICHARDS Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing. "Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree--he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time. "'I ain't no notion,' says he. "'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says. "'Just what I say,' says he. "'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here. "'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.' "Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses." Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called: "Direxia!" "Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something." "Direxia Hawkes!"