But Bill Sikes did not die; he rallied; the lost strength gradually came back to his palsied limbs sufficiently to enable him to hobble around, and his tongue became light enough to utter words that could be understood with difficulty. Full and complete recovery was impossible, however; he was a child, helplessly clinging to his wife, whose burden was increased tenfold with the larger children all away and management of everything--the looking after their little store and other property upon her shoulders; she felt that God had tried her as no other soul had been tried. The property of Bill Sikes had for a long time been coveted by his white neighbors, but even extortionate offers had been refused. But the 10th of November offered a favorable opportunity for the covetous to bulldoze black men who owned valuable real estate into selling it at any price, and Mrs. Sikes was one of that number whose experience had turned their love for the dear old home into hate. She had witnessed the killing of a poor wretch right in front of her door, within a stone's throw of his home; had heard the agonizing wails of his wife and children--a sight which she had never expected to witness in Wilmington. The roar of cannon and musketry, the yells of frightened women and children kept her poor, helpless husband in constant terror, hanging on to her skirts like a babe. And now, although weeks had passed since that fatal day, the native white, emboldened by re-enforcement and the demoralization of colored men, kept up the reign of terror. Colored women of respectability who had not fled the city were compelled to remain prisoners in their homes to escape ignominious treatment upon the highways.