One day Jakuskin found out that the Czar intended going from Alapka to Mordinof. Now there was but one road to it, and that only a bridle-path--a path called by the natives "the ladder." It well merited its cognomen, rising so steeply up the mountain-side that sometimes the horse has to force its way through narrow clefts in the rock. Jakuskin hired a Tartar guide, who was to lead him through the forest to the summit of "the ladder." Before dawn, in the dead of night, he made his start, to be there before the Czar. He was dressed in the costume of a Tartar huntsman, a double-barrelled gun slung over his shoulder. Emerging from the thick forest, he saw the steep mountain path before him. Over a spring, gushing from out the rocky wall, grew a bush some ten feet distant from the path. The path itself was intercepted here by a cleft in the rock, across which a narrow bridge had been thrown, only wide enough for one horseman to pass at a time. The most favorable spot possible for an ambush. "Hi, lad! How green your eyes are!" The man laughed a hollow, low laugh, as though out of an empty cask. "You're right; my eyes are green." He spoke, and disappeared in the thick underwood. Bethsaba's tale came into Jakuskin's mind. He drew back behind the tree, loaded his gun, and waited. A vulture flew over him with hoarse scream; he took the waiting man for a corpse, so motionless was he. At length was heard the long-expected signal. The path groaned beneath the tramp of horses. The horsemen must perforce pass quite close to him. He could aim as slowly as he pleased. Only when the horsemen came up did he see how he had been the sport of fate. They were only outriders; the company passed; the Czar was not among them. Where could he be? "Confound you, you fellow, with your green eyes!" said Jakuskin, with an oath. "You will be making me into a superstitious fool!" There was no sign of the Czar. He had escaped. * * * * * It is a delicious autumn day, such as is only to be met with in the enchantingly beautiful mountains of Tauris. The air is so pure that the distant ranges are brought near; silvery threads of gossamer flutter from every branch; the autumnal tints are an exquisite mixture of gold and red; the turf is strewn with pink anemones. That little spot of earth is the orchard of the world. There is a perfect forest of fruit-trees here, groaning under their ripe loads. Fallen apples and pears cover the ground. Blackbirds sing their praises to the owner of the woods, who grudges of his plenty neither to the wanderer nor to the birds of the air. The giant trees, which in other countries only bring forth wild pears, are here laden with luscious fruit sweet as honey. What can be gathered with the hand is the passer-by's; the rest is the property of the owner. Czar Alexander was delighted with the wealth of fruit in this fairy-land. He began to believe in Bethsaba's fairy stories.