“Toward morning, a messenger came from my husband. He was still at his post, and might not be able to leave it that day. We must keep bravely up, and remain quiet, otherwise his mind would be so distracted that it might be hard to go through what lay before him.
“I learned from the messenger that Leonard had tasted no food since morning, and hastily gathered up what there was cooked in the house. I sent it to him with the children’s love. Of course, we would be brave and quiet, I said. He must not care for us. I would mind the children, if God would only take care of him. I said this bravely, but my heart quailed within me as I spoke.
“The messenger promised to come back in an hour or two, and we waited for him with growing terror, for the crash of the fire-bells was perpetual now. All around us, red tongues of flame were shooting up through burning roofs, and the streets were full of straggling rioters, with the plunder of sacked homes on their backs; some of them reeling with intoxication, and cursing everything they met, as men and women cursed each other around the guillotines of Paris, and in the slaughter of the communes. These sights kept me at the window. An awful fascination drew me toward the street whenever a fresh mob came crowding along it. How did I know that he might not be there struggling against the stormy passions that filled the city with smoke and thunder.
“The sun was going down on the second day, and there we stood, carefully holding back the window-curtain, and straining our eyes to catch the first glimpse of his coming, or of some messenger who could tell us of his safety. All at once, a sound of low, growling thunder rolled down one of the cross-streets, and before we could tell what it meant, a group of policemen came up the street, each man armed and resolute, but white as marble, with a knowledge of the fearful odds against them. The leader of these men, towering above them all, was my husband. He never once looked toward the house. Perhaps he feared that the sight of it would unman him. With a loud, ringing voice, that reached us where we stood, he gave some orders to his men, who ranged themselves across the street, from which danger threatened. In a moment they were swept back by a throng of rioters—swept back and scattered by a rush of overpowering numbers. A shot was fired, and one man fell—the tallest, the grandest. Oh, God, help me!—the bravest of them all. I saw him go down. I saw the mob trample over him with yells of rage. His groans, his death-agony are unheeded as the stones under those brutal feet.
“I never knew how it was done, but in a moment I was struggling and buffeting my way through that avalanche of human fiends, as drowning men fight with the surging waters of a flood. Perhaps they had some compassion; or, it may be, that my white face frightened them, for the crowd broke where he was lying, and scattered away, tracking his blood upon the pavement as they went. I fell down on my knees by his side. I laid my hand on his heart, and drew it away wet and red. His eyes were open; but they could not see his poor wife; his lips were parted beneath the shadow of his beard, which the wind stirred, and it seemed to me that he was speaking. But, no; his murderers had done their work well. I knelt down upon those hot, dusty stones and covered my face, that they might not look upon the agony of my grief.
“Eva had followed me, and the little ones had clung to her shivering and crying as she pressed through the crowd. We were all together—his little family, wife and children—but he was dead. They would not believe it, but called upon him with feeble cries to look up and say that he was not much hurt. I knew that he was dead; that they were orphans, and I, his wife, a widow.”
CHAPTER XV.
ARTIST SYMPATHY.
The woman ceased speaking. During her whole narrative she had shed no tears, but her voice was low and cold, like the air that comes from a tomb. Her lips never quivered, but they grew white as death. While her mother was talking, Ruth had partly risen and drew the window-curtains softly together, hoping thus to shroud something of the grief which this man had so painfully aroused. Then she sunk back upon her couch, and looked at the stranger reproachfully through her tears. Mr. Ross sat gazing upon the floor, with trouble in his eyes. He felt all the pain he had given, and the thought was full of distress.
“Yes,” he said, at last. “I knew Laurence well. He was brave, noble, well educated. How comes it that he took a position which proved so fatal to him and to you?”
“He could get nothing better to do,” said Mrs. Laurence, drearily, “and I had no power to help him. But for the children, I might have obtained my old position as a teacher; but they needed all my care. At first, he did not intend to remain in the police, but time reconciled us to it, and he would soon have laid up enough capital for a start in business. It is all gone now; for I would not let the children go out into the world without education, and they loved study.”