Their orders, I learned, were that both officers and men should remain in the State-House, and not leave, even for meals, which were to be sent from a neighboring restaurant; and there they had been for two nights and days, in readiness to defend the place if attacked, yet having every assurance that so long as there remained a "regular" soldier in the building it would not be molested. No wonder they yawned and looked bored to death; and my proffer of services was gladly accepted. "Send us anything you may have in the way of reading matter, and we'll be only too thankful," was the major's half-laughing, half-rueful reply, and after an hour's chat I left. The lieutenant accompanied me to the entrance, where he bade me good-by. The knot of detectives drew aside and passed me out without remark. Once more I crossed Canal Street, and in an instant found myself surrounded by a bevy of eager reporters, note-book and pencil in hand, clamoring for information. From the obscurity of yesterday, Mr. G. S. Brandon had suddenly leaped into prominence.
CHAPTER X.
At nine o'clock that evening I was seated on a balcony overhanging Royal Street, quietly chatting with Miss Summers, Kitty Carrington, and Harrod. Vinton was much better, the doctors had assured us; the fever was broken; he had recognized Pauline during the afternoon, and was now asleep. The doctor had advised her to lie down and rest, for, after all her anxiety and the excitement of her rapid journey, she was looking very white and wan; but after an hour in her room she had again appeared, pleading that she could not sleep, and Harrod had led her out to the balcony, where we sat enjoying the evening air. Colonel Newhall had not returned from headquarters. We saw him for an instant at Moreau's, whither Harrod, Kitty, and I had gone for dinner, about six o'clock, leaving Pauline to share the simple tea offered her by the sympathetic landlady. He had stopped just long enough to say that it was not probable that he would be home during the evening,—he was needed at the office,—and then had walked briskly away. Coming home we could not help noticing how many men there were standing in quiet groups about the Clay statue and all along Canal Street; but Royal Street, generally so busy and bustling, was strangely quiet, wellnigh deserted. It was an exquisite night; the moon was at her full, and objects across the narrow thoroughfare were almost as distinct as in broad daylight. I could easily read the signs over the shops, and distinguish the features of the few people who passed. It was very still, too. Off to our left, towards Canal Street, the roar of wheels over the massive pavement was to be heard, but few sounds broke the stillness near our balcony. Some distance down the street a clear, ringing voice was carolling the page's song from "Mignon"; across the way two or three darkies were chattering in that indescribable language that sounds like French, yet is no more French than Siamese, the patois of the Creole negroes; but not a wheel or hoof awakened the echoes of the compact rows of old-fashioned houses.
Our landlady came out and looked uneasily up and down.
"I'm sure I don't know what to make of this," said she. "Ordinarily Royal Street is gay in the evening. To-night it is still as a cemetery. I know something is going to happen. A neighbor of mine on Chartres Street, just back of us, says that hundreds of men have been going down there for the last hour,—going down towards Jackson Square,—and they had guns, most all of them."
It was just then that somewhere near us a clock began striking nine.
Hardly had the last stroke died, quivering away through the still night air, when from the direction of the great cathedral, opposite the very square she named, there came a sudden and startling uproar, a rattling volley of small-arms, a chorus of yells that made the welkin ring; then a pandemonium of shots, shouts, and yells all together. Instantly, people below could be seen rushing to close their shutters; the chattering darkies disappeared around the corner, and we had sprung to our feet and were listening excitedly to the clamor, which increased with every moment. Pauline quickly stepped in-doors; her first thought was for her lover, and she had gone to his door. Kitty, very pale, was grasping the balcony rail and looking appealingly up in Harrod's face. He and I gazed questioningly at each other. Full a minute we stood there before any one spoke. Then Harrod pointed up Royal Street.
"Look! What is this?"
Leaning over the balcony I gazed eagerly up towards the white colonnade of the St. Charles, glistening and brilliant in the moonlight. Coming towards us in perfect silence at rapid, shuffling step, with the moonbeams glancing from their sloping arms and glistening bayonets, was a column of soldiers. Another moment and they were directly under us, and with them, drawn by horses, was a large field-piece. I recognized the uniforms at a glance: they were the police. Rapidly, almost at double-quick, they filed under the balcony and marched on down the street. We followed them with our eyes until they turned to the right, some squares farther east, and waited further developments. The noise of the firing, the shouts and yells had partially died away, but not entirely. Suddenly there came a renewal of the clangor; the rattling fusilade was resumed, then came a volley or two, delivered as though by word of command; then a deafening roar that shook the windows.