The afternoon was spent; the day gone; the summet twilight deepening into night; and still he did not come. She had caught up her hat and mantle with some insane intention of rushing into the wide, wild city, on a frenzied search, when two gentlemen passing by her door, talking of the all-absorbing theme, arrested her ear and attention.
"The house ought to be guarded! These devils will be here presently,—they are on the Avenue now."
"Good God! are you certain?"
"Certain."
"You may well be," said a third voice, as another step joined theirs. "They are just above Thirtieth Street. I was coming down the Avenue, and saw them myself. I don't know what my fate would have been in this dress,"—Francesca knew from this that he who talked was of the police or soldiery,—"but they were engaged in fighting a young officer, who made a splendid defence before they cut him down; his courage was magnificent. It makes my blood curdle to think of it. A fair-haired, gallant-looking fellow, with only one arm. I could do nothing for him, of course, and should have been killed had I stayed; so I ran for life. But I don't think I'll ever quite forgive myself for not rushing to the rescue, and taking my chance with him."
She did not stay to hear the closing words. Out of the room, past them, like a spirit,—through the broad halls,—down the wide stairways,—on to the street,—up the long street, deserted here, but O, with what a crowd beyond!
A company of soldiers, paltry in number, yet each with loaded rifle and bayonet set, charged past her at double-quick upon this crowd, which gave way slowly and sullenly at its approach, holding with desperate ferocity and determination to whatever ghastly work had been employing their hands,—dropped at last,—left on the stones,—the soldiers between it and the mob,—silent, motionless,—she saw it, and knew it where it lay. O woful sight and knowledge for loving eyes and bursting heart!
Ere she reached it some last stones were flung by the retreating crowd, a last shot fired in the air,—fired at random, but speeding with as unerring aim to her aching, anguished breast, death-freighted and life-destroying,—but not till she had reached her destined point and end; not till her feet failed close to that bruised and silent form; not till she had sunk beside it, gathered it in her fair young arms, and pillowed its beautiful head—from which streamed golden hair, dabbled and blood-bestained—upon her faithful heart.
There it stirred; the eyes unclosed to meet hers, a gleam of divine love shining through their fading fire; the battered, stiffened arm lifted, as to fold her in the old familiar caress. "Darling—die—to make—free"—came in gasps from the sweet, yet whitening lips. Then she lay still. Where his breath blew across her hair it waved, and her bosom moved above the slow and labored beating of his heart; but, save for this, she was as quiet as the peaceful dead within their graves,—and, like them, done with the noise and strife of time forever.
For him,—the shadows deepened where he lay,—the stars came out one by one, looking down with clear and solemn eyes upon this wreck of fair and beautiful things, wrought by earthly hate and the awful passions of men,—then veiled their light in heavy and sombre clouds. The rain fell upon the noble face and floating, sunny hair,—washing them free of soil, and dark and fearful stains; moistening the fevered, burning lips, and cooling the bruised and aching frame. How passed the long night with that half-insensible soul? God knoweth. The secrets of that are hidden in the eternity to which it now belongs. Questionless, ministering spirits drew near, freighted with balm and inspiration; for when the shadows fled, and the next morning's sun shone upon these silent forms, it revealed faces radiant as with some celestial fire, and beatified as reflecting the smile of God.