Columns of blue flames ran between the two banks. Volumes of vapor
curled up above. The few pieces of ice which still drifted were seized
by the burning liquid, and melted like wax on the top of a furnace,
the evaporated water escaping in shrill hisses.
At the same moment, firing broke out on the North and South of the town.
The enemy's batteries discharged their guns at random.
Several thousand Tartars rushed to the assault of the earth-works.
The houses on the bank, built of wood, took fire in every direction.
A bright light dissipated the darkness of the night.
"At last!" said Ivan Ogareff.
He had good reason for congratulating himself. The diversion which
he had planned was terrible. The defenders of Irkutsk found themselves
between the attack of the Tartars and the fearful effects of fire.
The bells rang, and all the able-bodied of the population ran,
some towards the points attacked, and others towards the houses
in the grasp of the flames, which it seemed too probable would ere
long envelop the whole town.
The Gate of Bolchaia was nearly free. Only a very small
guard had been left there. And by the traitor's suggestion,
and in order that the event might be explained apart from him,
as if by political hate, this small guard had been chosen
from the little band of exiles.
Ogareff re-entered his room, now brilliantly lighted by
the flames from the Angara; then he made ready to go out.
But scarcely had he opened the door, when a woman rushed into
the room, her clothes drenched, her hair in disorder.
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