the brief, soldierly telegram which has become historical :*

"Our troops, having manfully sustained the fatigues of the march, occupied Khiva on the 29th May (0.S.) The Khan has fled. The men are in good health and spirits."

"Well done!" respond I, shaking hands with him energetically across the table, to the imminent peril of his ill-secured ink bottle. "I suppose you'll be having a Te Deum for this to-night?"

"Of course; I should hope it's worth one! If you're anywhere near the gate of the fort towards eight o'clock you'll find it just beginning. Good morning."

During the day (for the great news spread slowly at first) there is no unusual excitement apparent in the little community; but when, towards sunset, I return from the third of my daily baths in the Syr-Daria, I find the Governor's prophecy fulfilled with a vengeance. The broad sweep of dusty plain that stretches from the fortress-ditch to the first houses of the "town," utterly silent and deserted less than an hour ago, is now surging like a sea with the rush of the entire population. Portly merchants with bushy red beards; close-shaven Kirghiz, glancing wickedly through the corners of their small narrow eyes at all around them; pale, delicate ladies, attired in the newest (i.e., last year's) fashions, which get sadly maltreated by the pressure of the crowd; brown, half-naked, wild-looking camel-drivers,

* This copy was sent by courier, the telegraph line not passing through Kazalinsk.

tossing their shaggy hair like a mane; Russian shopmen, conspicuous in red shirts put on outside their clothes; drowsy-looking government clerks in faded uniform, puffing paper cigarettes; and round-faced children, enjoying, as only children can, the surrounding noise and bustle. A most levelling assemblage it is, merging all thought of rank and position-nay, even the national awe of anything in uniform—in the one pervading desire of getting a good view. Not without hard struggling, and considerable damage to my already tattered habiliments, do I at length fight my way into the front row, and burst suddenly upon the most striking scene that I have ever witnessed.

Just in front of me stand, formed in hollow square, the soldiers of the garrison, two hundred and eighty strong-gaunt, dark, sinewy Cossacks, in flat caps and white tunics-straight and immovable as a stone wall. In the centre of the square about a dozen officers are grouped around a little pulpit of wood, covered with an embroidered cloth. Above, the two guns which arm the western épaulement of the fort peer hungrily over the low massive wall; around welters a sea of manycoloured dresses and eager eyes, while far in the background extends the dull grey of the infinite desert, melting shadow-like into the crimson sky.

A sudden tap on the arm makes me turn round, and over my shoulder looks the dark face of Vereshtchagin, all aglow with the flush of an excitement rarely seen upon those disciplined features.

"What did I tell you?" says he; "isn't it worth a

Te Deum? We are all rejoicing like one man to-day -see!"

I look around me, and see at a glance how truly he has spoken. The hard, low-browed faces are absolutely glorified for the moment by that deep religious fervour innate in the Russian peasant, and now called forth in all its fulness by a triumph which to them is not merely the victory of man over man, but the judgment of God upon the worshippers of the False Prophet. In the breast of every man present beats a throb of that mighty exultation which is this day uplifting every Russian heart from the Baltic to the Pacific; and the rejoicing of this handful of exiles is in truth the rejoicing of an empire.

"But tell me—” begin I.

"Hush!" answers he warningly; "here comes the priest."

A dead silence falls upon the whole assembly, while the officers around the pulpit reverently make way for the grand old patriarch, who comes slowly forward, with his long grey hair streaming over the flowing robe which covers him from head to foot. As he stands alone in the centre, looking round upon the eager crowd, there breaks over his face the light of a solemn gladness, too deep and heartfelt for excitement. In his full, rich voice, he chants the customary prayers, while ever and anon the deep sonorous response of the fightingmen strikes in like the roll of a drum. And the setting sun streams over the files of glittering bayonets, and the long ranks of firm, sun-browned faces, and the

grey wall of the fort, and the rushing river beyond—and the solitary figure in the midst of all, with its grey head bowed in prayer.

Truly it is a gallant sight—such a one as England may have seen two hundred years ago, when the ranks of the Ironsides closed around the square, powerful figure and granite-hewn face of "the man Oliver,” praying his brief stern prayer to the God of battles before going forth to scatter the "godless horsemen " of Rupert and Goring. At length the old man's voice ceases; and now the officers crowd forward to kiss the crucifix which he holds, and the guns of the fortress boom out their deep Amen, and the band strikes up a triumphal march, and all is one great burst of rejoicing.

"It's worth seeing, is it not?" says Vereshtchagin, as the crowd begins to melt away. "I daresay you've seen plenty of 'molêbens' (Te Deums) in Russia; but this is a special one. We've gained victories enough in our day; but this is the first time we have ever taken Khiva."

And, in truth, of all the thanksgivings offered up by men who have fought and conquered, few have ever been more fully justified. Against the countless festivals by which Russia has profaned the name of divine justice to deeds of successful brigandage and unsparing bloodshed, may be set in atonement this one triumph, which has avenged at once her own cause and that of mankind. Generations of falsehood and insolence, of barefaced robbery and treacherous murder, are expiated to-day. For a hundred and fifty years the long debt of

vengeance has been accumulating; and it is now paid in full. The inaccessible stronghold has fallen at last -the hotbed of Turkoman brigandage, the centre of the Eastern slave trade, the source whence treason, and outrage, and cruelty have gone forth for ages over the length and breadth of Central Asia. If the passions of earth can penetrate beyond the grave, there must be a sullen joy over this day's work among the fierce spirits of those who were butchered on the shore of the Aral Sea in 1721, or who died amid the snow-drifts of the Ust-Urt in 1840, cursing with their last breath the city and the nation upon whom judgment has fallen to-day.