There was scuffling again and suddenly the night was made hideous with the mad howling and barking of Wolf and the shrieking of men in pain; at this moment Joseph, with a light in his hand, appeared at the door on the second story: “Wolf—Wolf,” he called. He did not call again. “Whew,” thought the alchemist, “they silenced the boy. A gag, probably.” He was right. The leader of the attacking party had seized Joseph and thrown a cloth bag over his head. “To the house,” he shouted to the men below. “Four of you stand guard at the door. Four of you wait at the stairs and let no one descend, and the rest come with me.” As the light of the lantern which he had taken from the boy swung upon his face, the man watching above could see that it was marked with a great round scar like an immense button. “Tartar or Cossack,” he exclaimed, “for the plague which leaves such scars is an Eastern plague; these men have come from a long distance.” He was right. This was indeed the band of that ruffian whom the Poles called Peter of the Button Face and whose bad fame men knew in all the Ukraine and the lands to the east. In the next second, almost, they were inside the house—Peter, and three men following. There came to the alchemist’s ears the scream of a woman, followed by a crash as if she had been thrown upon the floor. Then came the sound of the breaking of furniture, of the tearing up of matting, of the destruction of everything within the house as if a quick, violent search were being made. The door was open and the alchemist could hear clearly all the sounds below. “Look in the bed,” the leader spoke. Pan Andrew and his wife slept in a large bed in the front room. Swords were quickly at work ripping this to pieces. They cut open the pillows, they tore apart the blankets, and it was only after the bed was a complete ruin that the leader found what he had been seeking. “There it is,” he shouted; “that large package, done up in cloth.” With his sword he ripped away the layers of cloth that bound it—one by one they fell away upon the floor until the object he sought stood uncovered in his right hand. But just at that instant as he was about to dart for the door there came a shrill voice, shrieking, “My gold—my gold!” Peter turned like a flash. “Blood of a dog——” The lantern was held up. Its light disclosed the face of Stas maddened with the fear that he should not receive the price of his treachery. “Gold! I’ll give you gold,” shouted Peter, infuriated. “Some one take him and throw him down to the dog. Then he can take what gold we choose to throw him.”