filled with dangers of the most horrible sort. Murder, crime of every
kind, lawlessness in every guise, stalked through the streets or lurked
down the narrow, dark and twisted alleys. The unfortunate citizens who
had not retreated in time hid, when they could, in all sorts of strange
places. They gathered in trembling, whispering groups, into garrets
and cellars; even the vaults in the catacombs, the old burial place of
the dead, were opened by desperate fugitives, and became hiding places
for the living.

The soldiers were in possession of all the uninjured residences in the
more modern portion of the city, where they reveled in the comforts of
modern baths, lights and heat. But the lower part of the city, lying
along the left bank of the river Vistula, was filled with a strange
mixture of terrified people. In all the throngs, huddled in streets
and alleys, storehouses and ware-rooms, there was perhaps no stranger
group than the one gathered in a dark corner of a great building where
machinery of some sort had been manufactured.

This had, strangely enough, escaped destruction and stood unharmed in a
street where everything bore the scars of shells or bombs.

The engines were stopped; the great wheels motionless; the broad belts
sagged hopelessly. Even the machinery seemed to feel the terrible blow
and mourned the fallen city.

The persons huddled in the shadow of a vast wheel, however, gave little
heed to their strange surroundings. They seemed crushed by a frightful
grief more personal even than the taking of Warsaw would cause in the
most loyal heart.