"And you stood by and saw it done!" I exclaimed, with mingled contempt and indignation.
"Sor it? How cud I holp it? I hes my orders,—ter keep my eye on thet 'ar' door; 'sides, thar' war' nigh a dozen on 'em, and these Richmond nigs, now thet the white folks is away, is more lawless nor old Bragg himself. My life 'ou'dn't ha' been wuth a hill o' beans among 'em."
By this time I had gradually drawn the sentinel to the corner of the building, and looking down the dimly lighted street whence the sounds proceeded, I saw that it was empty.
"They are gone now," I said, "and the woman may be dying. Come, go down there with me."
"Carn't, Cunnel. I 'ou'dn't do it fur all the women in Richmond."
"Was your mother a woman?"
"I reckon, and a right peart 'un,—ye mought bet yer pile on thet."
"I'll bet my pile she'd disown you, if she knew you turned your back on a woman."
He gave me a wistful, undecided look, and then, muttering something about "orders," which I did not stop to bear, followed me, as I hurried down the street.
Not three hundred yards away, in a narrow recess between two buildings, we found the woman. She lay at full length on the pavement, her neat muslin gown torn to shreds, and her simple lace bonnet crushed into a shapeless mass beside her. Her thick, dishevelled hair only half-concealed her open bosom, and from the corners of her mouth the blood was flowing freely. She was not dead,—for she still moaned pitifully,—but she seemed to be dying. Lifting her head as tenderly as I could, I said to her,—