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472 day, had thrown himself on a couch to snatch a moment’s sleep. Presently a strange unaccustomed sound was heard in that silent palace,—a cry for mercy; doors were burst violently open, and, in another instant, Lubowicki, one of his infamous favourites, rushed into the Grand Duke’s presence, and, pale and trembling, told his master, who was still paler and more panic-stricken than he, that insurgents had forced the guards at the gates, and were fast approaching. It was the eighteen young volunteers from the Military College. The clank of arms sounded nearer and nearer; Constantine, shaking in every limb, threw a dressing-gown over his uniform, and, accompanied by a valet, sought refuge in the gardens of the palace, passing some of the insurgents on his way. They did not recognise in the crouching, colourless wretch, the loud-voiced arrogant tyrant of whom they were in search. Lubowicki was less fortunate than his master; he fell, a few minutes after, pierced by thirteen bayonet wounds,—the number of murders he had lately consummated. The Grand Duchess, awakened by the report of fire-arms, was on her knees: was it to pray for the tyrant, whose love was little better than infamy, or for the country he had steeped in blood?

But the Czarowicz has escaped, and the alarm is given; and whilst the Jews barricaded their shops and got ready the Polish colours in case the insurrection succeeded; whilst the Russian troops vainly struggled against the desperate bravery of the patriots; whilst the eighteen young assailants of the Belvedere abandonded their search in despair, and, seeing none of the signals agreed on, almost feared they were betrayed, and, falling in with a party of the enemy, escaped only by miracles of bravery; so, through all the mistakes and terrors of those hours between midnight and dawn, Warsaw was awakening to a morrow of freedom, and Sass, Makrott, Gendre, three of Constantine’s best spies, were hung or bayoneted.

The people, supplied with arms from the arsenal, enthusiastically obeyed the directions of the pupils of the Military College, and rushed on to deliver the prisoners. Alas! in some instances, they came too late: Constantine’s satellites, knowing the value he placed on his favourite victims, secured them in time, chained them to gun-carriages, and so dragged them to the Russian camp beyond Warsaw. General Rozniecki escaped thither disguised as a coachman. Constantine, after in vain waiting for any of his followers to whom he could trust himself, at length ventured to leave the gardens; he got beyond the town, and was presently startled by a well-known voice. It was that of the Prussian ambassador, who, after seeking the Czarowicz in every place not in the power of the triumphant insurgents, at last encountered and recognised his Imperial Highness, who returned his greeting by exclaiming, piteously: “All is lost, Schmidt; you must get away—get away with me.” In vain the ambassador tried to infuse some courage into his companion:—

“What measures does your Imperial Highness propose to take?”

“None at all—I must think of that to-morrow.”

The ambassador declared he at least must send off news of the occurrence to his master, and finally persuaded Constantine to despatch intelligence to the Czar.

A group of cottages belonging to one of the new factories was at hand; the two fugitives entered the first door, and the Prussian asked the housewife for pen, ink, and paper. She was a good-hearted German woman, and, having placed a seat for the fine gentleman who addressed her, brushed past Constantine, who stood shivering by the stove, and presently returned with the desired articles.

“Ah, your honour!” she cried, “you look as if you had passed as uneasy a night as we have. Does your honour know what has become of the Czarowicz? He’ll be in a nice taking. I shouldn’t like to come across him! Though I don’t belong to the country, I must say the people are right. The pitcher that goes—ah, your honour wants some sealing-wax.”

Constantine was spared any further gossip, and in half an hour the despatches were on their way to Petersburg and Berlin. When General Diesst, at Posen, was wakened up from a doze he was enjoying to forward the document onward, on seeing the dirty scrap of paper which represented it, he exclaimed:

“What’s this? Schmidt! A revolution in Warsaw, and all upon a scrap of paper like that. Oh, it’s a d—d mystification!”

He lay down quietly to sleep again, but could not rest, and after sending round to all the “State councillors,” finally found one who recognised the signature, and then, with trepidation and loyal haste, the despatch was sped on to the King at Berlin, who might read in it the destruction of all his fondest hopes of French plunder.

We have little more to say of Constantine: the close of his crimes and his life was fast approaching; and the latter only concerns us here through its connection with Warsaw. With Warsaw, or one very dear to it, his existence was still linked: Major Lucasinski was still in his power, with many other Polish prisoners. Lucasinski, though imprisoned since 1819, and subjected to every ingenuity of torture, had never confessed anything of the plans with which Constantine affected to believe him mixed up. Hunger, thirst, the burning brazier, and hot pincers had been employed in vain; so the Czarowicz, made still more cruel by his humiliation, fell on the idea of driving his victim into temporary insanity, thinking to gather from his ravings the clue desired. Lucasinski was chained to a machine for grinding ashes, that turned night and day in his Russian dungeon, permitting no sleep or rest; but it was still in vain; no word passed his lips that could be tortured into an accusation even by Russian ingenuity. Constantine dragged his prisoner about with him in chains wherever he went. The Grand Duke was once more to enter Warsaw, and to leave it in panic fear. Lucasinski accompanied him, and could hear the shouts of his countrymen, who would have proudly risked their lives for his rescue; but it was not to be: he was doomed to die in a Russian prison,—none know where but those who murdered him.

But a little time and the world was told the Czarowicz was dead; that his wife and child were