From Justin it was passed on from hand to hand, until it reached the men nearest the water spout. They took the cup from the bottom of the flask, over which it was fitted, and they filled it with water, and then passed both cup and flask from hand to hand until it reached the fainting invalid. It seemed to be useless, for the voice that had spoken first was heard again: “Crowd back, boys. Crowd back, for Heaven’s sake! Never mind flattening yourselves half to death! Crowd back, I say! This man is not fainting—he is dying! Let him have a little room to lie down and die.” There was an attempt at “crowding back.” The attempt involved increased pressure and pain, and elicited renewed groans and curses. But four or five feet of room was made, and the dying man was let down upon the ground. The “man” was a boy of eighteen. Those immediately around him saw his face darken with the shadow of death, saw his eyes glaze, and heard his gasping breath, and the death rattle in his throat, and they saw, through all, his eager anxiety and painful effort to speak. “Don’t tell——don’t tell——don’t tell——” he began to say many times, and many times he failed. At length, in one supreme effort, he spoke his whole will. “Don’t tell mother—never let her hear—how wretchedly I die!” And with these words, his spirit passed. And the groans and curses and vows of vengeance were renewed—more is the pity, since the pure spirit that had just departed was doubtlessly reconciled to all things, and at peace with all men. 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. “Me!” she exclaimed in surprise, making an involuntary but perfectly vain effort of resistance. “Yes, you, _Miss Bridget Martin_!” said the officer. “What are you about to do with me?” she demanded, recovering her self-possession, and ceasing to resist where resistance would be unavailing and undignified. “We are going to put you in Castle Thunder; you are not to be treated as a prisoner of war, but to be tried as a spy.” “I!” she exclaimed, in amazement.