“As I said before,” replied Andrews, “I tell you only what I have gleaned among the workmen in those secret whispers which pass from one man’s mouth to another man’s ear.  I may be misinformed; but I am told that these rifles are manufactured by the men themselves (for, of course, all the skilled work of all kinds is done by workingmen) in some remote and desolate parts of Europe or America; they are furnished at a very low price, at actual cost, and paid for in small installments, during many years.  They are delivered to the captains of tens and by them buried in rubber bags in the earth.”

“Then that accounts,” said one man, who had not yet spoken, “for a curious incident which occurred the other day near the town of Zhitomir, in the province of Volhynia, Russia, not very far from the borders of Austria.  A peasant made an offer to the police to deliver up, for 200 rubles, and a promise of pardon for himself, nine of his fellow conspirators and their rifles.  His terms were accepted and he was paid the money.  He led the officers to a place in his barnyard, where, under a manure-heap, they dug up ten splendid rifles of American make, with fixed ammunition, of the most improved kind, the whole inclosed in a rubber bag to keep out the damp.  Nine other peasants were arrested; they were all subjected to the knout; but neither they nor their captain could tell anything more than he had at first revealed.  The Russian newspapers have been full of speculations as to how the rifles came there, but could arrive at no reasonable explanation.”

“What became of the men?” asked Andrews, curiously.

“Nine of them were sent to Siberia for life; the tenth man, who had revealed the hiding-place of the guns, was murdered that night with his wife and all his family, and his house burned up.  Even two of his brothers, who lived near him, but had taken no part in the matter, were also slain.”

“I expected as much,” said Andrews quietly.

This unlooked-for corroboration of the spy’s story produced a marked sensation, and there was profound silence for some minutes.

At last the Prince spoke up: 

“Andrews,” said he, “what did you learn about the leaders of this organization?”

“There are three of them, I am told,” replied the spy; they constitute what is known as ‘the Executive Committee.’  The commander-in-chief, it is whispered, is called, or was called—­for no one can tell what his name is now—­Caesar Lomellini; a man of Italian descent, but a native of South Carolina.  He is, it is said, of immense size, considerable ability, and the most undaunted courage.  His history is singular.  He is now about forty-five years of age.  In his youth, so the story goes, he migrated to the then newly settled State of Jefferson, on the upper waters of the Saskatchewan.  He had married early, like all his race, and had a family.  He settled down on land and went to farming.  He was a quiet, peaceable, industrious man.  One