"What!--my children?" cried the man, passing the back of his hand across his brow and nearly sinking to the ground, but instantly recovering himself and disappearing into the darkness in the direction of the house. Marianne was already there. She sprang across the threshold and, flinging the door wide open, cried:-- "The house is mined! Save yourselves! Save yourselves, all of you!" At any other time, those who heard her might have thought her mad, and hesitated before taking flight; but, in the threatening circumstances of the hour, she had scarcely opened her lips before her appearance had told of danger. The stronger carried out the weaker and the youngest of the party, while their elders threw open all the doors and drove the little ones out before them. By good fortune, the feast had been given on the ground floor, a few steps only from the street. In a few moments the house was emptied, the outer gates passed. The twelfth stroke of midnight was sounding on the factory clock when a terrible explosion was heard, and the house, full of light and the odours of the entertainment so rudely interrupted, was blown into the air and fell in a heap of ruins. There was a frightful panic and flight. The street, but a few moments before so full of cheerful sounds, became suddenly silent, as if death had taken the place of life there. At a short distance, one woman alone remained--a woman with an infant in her arms and three other children clinging to her skirt. This woman, followed by her children, advanced. One gaslight only was burning in the street, lighting the immense hecatomb and casting its trembling rays upon the body of a man. She wished to reach this body, to see whether she recognised it--praying to God that it might be _him_, preferring rather to know that he was dead than a living assassin. A glance sufficed, and, hiding her face, forcing back the tears that were swelling her bosom to bursting, she drew her children to her and fell upon her knees. Through its windows the little workmen's church of the quarter seemed to be on fire, and the bells pealed out with their utmost power of sound, calling the faithful to the midnight service. But in the higher part of the town the news of the explosion had spread with immense rapidity, and presently an ever-growing crowd gathered from all points, manifesting terror and indignation. The body of the man was examined and identified. "Jacques Houdaille, the Anarchist!" was cried on all sides. "Yes," said Marianne, facing the exasperated crowd and protecting her children with her trembling hands; "the Anarchist--but who did not hesitate to rush on to death to save us, and accepted that fate as an expiation." _Illustrated Interviews._ XXXII.--THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS. BY MARY SPENCER-WARREN. [Illustration: MR. BURDETT-COUTTS AND THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS. _From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]