ghastly scene before him vanishes in smoke and darkness, or glows out
again in fearful distinctness.

Every one shrieks, cries, prays, swears, raves.

No; not every one! There, on the barricade, his logs doubled up
Turk-fashion, sits a young painter with Mephisto beard and grey eyes.
His sketch-book is open, and he is making a vivid sketch of the
sensational scene. The illustrated papers are grateful customers, and
will rejoice at receiving the sketch.

But this young draughtsman is not the only sensible person in the
place. There is another, a long-legged Englishman, standing with watch
in hand, reckoning up the time lost by the accident, and eyeing the
scene complacently.

Some noisy dispute attracts my attention, and, turning, I behold a man,
trying with all his might to overcome a woman, who attacks him with
teeth and nails, biting his hands and tearing at his flesh, as he drags
her close to him. At last he succeeds in joining both of her hands
behind her back, she foaming, writhing, and cursing. I ask indignantly,
"What do you want with the woman? Let her alone!"

"Oh, sir!" he said, showing me a sorrowful and tear-stained face, "for
Heaven's sake, help me! I cannot bear with her any more. She wants to
leap down and kill herself. Pray help me to tie her hands, and carry her
off from here!"

By his speech I knew him for a Pole, and the woman's exclamations were
also uttered in the Polish language. She was his wife; her children were