“Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?”

Big tears ran down poor Ivan’s cheek.  No one saw them, no one observed him.  He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the smoke out of his pipe.  No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills.  No one heard the sad words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang: 

  “Lovely Minka! must I leave thee,
    Leave my happy, heather plains? 
  Ah! this parting does not grieve thee,
    Though still true my heart remains. 
    Far from thee I roam,
  Sadly see the sunbeams shining,
  Lonely all the night I’m pining
    Far from thee alone.”

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he passes about his pipe; he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all’s right.  The pipe is alight.  Like brilliant eyes of fire the burning tobacco shines out of the bowl.  Ivan puts it back in his mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pass, and, joking and laughing merrily, the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with powder for the blowing up of the arsenal.  How joyous and careless they are, these sons of the steppe!  How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch?  Why do the big drops of sweat run down thy forehead?  Why do thy limbs tremble, and why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.

Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart-rending, pitiful cry.  The burning pipe drops from his mouth!

Then rises a wild yell—­an awful, horrible report!

The earth quakes and trembles, as if about to open, to vomit forth the burning stream of a thundering crater.  The sky seems blackened by the fearful smoke which fills the air far and wide.  Everywhere may be seen human bodies, single shattered limbs, ruins of the exploded building, flying through the air, and covering the groaning, trembling earth.  But no syllable or sound of complaint, no death-rattle is now heard.  All is over.

The powder-mills have flown into the air, and, though far distant from Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was felt in every part of the city.[1] In the Frederick Street the houses shook as if from an earthquake, and countless panes of glass were shattered.