"Have you no dread of the sentence—no fear of dying, that you speak so quietly?"
The old man turned his head and looked back. Two females were following him a little way off. They had gone across the street to avoid the crowd of men and boys that hung like a pack of hounds about the prisoner, but were gazing after him with anxious faces, that touched even the officer with pity, as his glance fell upon them. The old man saw where his eyes rested, and answered very mournfully—
"Yes, I have a dread of the sentence. It will reach them! Besides, it is a solemn thing to die—a very solemn thing to know that at a certain hour you will stand face to face with God!"
"Still, I dare say, you would meet death like a hero!"
"When death comes, I will try and meet it like a Christian," was the mild answer.
As the old man spoke, they were crossing Chambers street to a corner of the Park, but their progress was checked by a carriage, drawn by a pair of superb horses, and mounted by two footmen in livery, that dashed by, scattering the crowd in every direction.
Mrs. Warren and her grand-daughter were on the opposite side, and had just left Centre street to cross over. Julia uttered a faint scream, and attempted to draw her grandmother back, for the horses were dashing close upon them, and the old woman stood as if paralyzed in the middle of the street. She did not move; the horses plunged by, and the wheels made her garments flutter with the air they scattered in passing. The old woman uttered a cry as the carriage disappeared, and ran forward a step or two, as if impelled by some wild impulse to follow it; Julia darted forward and caught hold of her arm.
"Grandmother, grandmother, where are you going? What is the matter?"
"Did you see that?" said the old woman.
"What, grandmother?"