Meanwhile, sit alone with your children, and watch for his coming,—you, simple hearted woman, that know no higher learning, than the rich intuitions of a mother's love. Your chastity is like a vail of light, making holy the room in which you watch, with your boy at your knee, and your baby on your bosom.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY.
It was a strange march which Arthur and Barnhurst, arm in arm, took through the streets of the Empire City.
"I am ready to attend you wherever you go," whispered Arthur, as leaving the den of Madam Resimer, they went down the dark street.
"But, where shall I go?" was the question that troubled Barnhurst. "Home?" He shuddered at the thought. Any place but home! "Can I possibly get rid of him?" Doubtful, exceedingly doubtful; "his arm is too strong, and he has me in his power in every way. But that engagement which I have, to meet a person at the hour of four o'clock, at a peculiar place,—how shall I dispose of it? Shall I fail to keep it, or shall I make this man a witness of it?"
Barnhurst was troubled. He knew not what to do. And so arm in arm, they walked along in silence through a multitude of streets,—streets dark as grave-vaults, and laid out in old times, with a profound contempt of right angles—streets walled in with huge warehouses, above whose lofty roofs, you caught but a glimpse of the midnight stars.
And so passing along, they came at length upon the Battery, and caught the keen blast upon their cheeks, as they wandered among the leafless trees. They heard the roar of the waters, and saw the glorious bay,—dim and vast,—surging sullenly under the broad sky, dark with midnight, and yet, glittering with countless stars. A starlight view of Manhattan bay, from the Battery—it was a sight worth seeing. Herman and Arthur, standing there alone, looked forth in silence. They could not see each other's faces, but Arthur felt the incessant horror which agitated Barnhurst's arm and Barnhurst heard the groan which seemed wrung from Arthur's very heart.
For a long time there was silence. Flash on, old midnight, in your solemn drapery set with stars,—flash on,—you sparkled thus grandly ten thousand years ago, as you will ten thousand years hence,—what care you for the agony of these two men, who now with widely different feelings, stand awed by your sullen splendor!