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ran ahead to the seat of the explosion. The Princess—evidently on purpose—lingered behind. Prokop thought that she had something to say to him, but she only pointed with her finger at his face. Prokop quickly felt his face; on it he found the bloody traces of her teeth, and, picking up a handful of soil, rubbed it over the marks, as if he had been struck by a clod at the explosion.

The hole in which the powder had been placed had become a crater about fifteen feet across. It was difficult to calculate the power of the explosion, but Carson estimated it at five times that of oxyliquid. “Fine stuff,” he said, “but a bit too strong for ordinary usage.” Mr. Carson took the whole conversation in hand, slipping adroitly over its serious gaps. When on the way back he took leave of them with an affability that was somewhat too evident, saying that he had this and that to do, Prokop became conscious of an oppressive weight. What was he to talk about now? For some curious reason he had the impression that he must not refer in any way to the dark and mysterious happening which took place at the same time as the explosion when “the heavens were cleft by a fiery power.” He entertained a bitter and unpleasant feeling that the Princess had coldly dismissed him like a lackey with