It was a night of horror and agony, unutterable and indescribable. To those who endured it, the eight hours of darkness seemed eight years of torture. But it passed at last.
The pale, sickly dawn of day appeared. The gas in the streets was turned off.
A little while after sunrise the prison doors were opened, and the prisoners nearest the outlet burst forth, as the contents of an over packed chest when the lid is raised.
Half of them were taken out, and marched, between a detachment of Rebel infantry, through the streets of the city en route for Belle Isle.
In one of the most crowded thoroughfares, they were halted before a grim-looking building with grated windows.
“What place is that?” inquired Britomarte of the Rebel soldier beside her.
“It is Castle Thunder,” was the gruff reply.
The officer commanding the guard came near.
“Bring that prisoner out of the lines!” he ordered, pointing to Britomarte.
And two soldiers seized her by the two arms.