Dr. Sevier and Richling had that wish together. They had many wishes that were greatly at variance the one's from the other's. The Doctor had struggled for the Union until the very smoke of war began to rise into the sky; but then he "went with the South." He was the only one in New Orleans who knew--whatever some others may have suspected--that Richling's heart was on the other side. Had Richling's bodily strength remained, so that he could have been a possible factor, however small, in the strife, it is hard to say whether they could have been together day by day and night by night, as they came to be when the Doctor took the failing man into his own home, and have lived in amity, as they did. But there is this to be counted; they were both, though from different directions, for peace, and their gentle forbearance toward each other taught them a moderation of sentiment concerning the whole great issue. And, as I say, they both together held the one longing hope that, whatever war should bring of final gladness or lamentation, the steeples of New Orleans might never toll--twelve. But one bright Thursday April morning, as Richling was sitting, half dressed, by an open window of his room in Dr. Sevier's house, leaning on the arm of his soft chair and looking out at the passers on the street, among whom he had begun to notice some singular evidences of excitement, there came from a slender Gothic church-spire that was highest of all in the city, just beyond a few roofs in front of him, the clear, sudden, brazen peal of its one great bell. "Fire," thought Richling; and yet, he knew not why, wondered where Dr. Sevier might be. He had not seen him that morning. A high official had sent for him at sunrise and he had not returned. "Clang," went the bell again, and the softer ding--dang--dong of others, struck at the same instant, came floating in from various distances. And then it clanged again--and again--and again--the loud one near, the soft ones, one by one, after it--six, seven, eight, nine--ah! stop there! stop there! But still the alarm pealed on; ten--alas! alas!--eleven--oh, oh, the women and children!--twelve! And then the fainter, final asseverations of the more distant bells--twelve! twelve! twelve!--and a hundred and seventy thousand souls knew by that sign that the foe had passed the forts. New Orleans had fallen.