The tramp of feet was very close at hand now; even through the darkness he could discern an advancing line, which absorbed and deepened the blackness of the starless night, and this line swayed hither, thither, as if in wild mirth, while overhead scattered torches flamed redly in the misty air, and wreaths of black and suffocating smoke eddied here and there before settling in foul and noxious rain upon faces which needed little to add to their hideous, repulsive horror. Then a woman’s voice began some wild and obscene melody, which was caught up, with curses and laughter, by hundreds; and Fritz turned and fled through the quiet night before him towards the doomed household. Meanwhile, Henry Randolph had returned to his guests, just as Louis Metzerott entered the room from the hall. Mr. Randolph was a brave man; courage had come to him, with his sturdy muscles and handsome face, from a long succession of ancestors. “A riot, is it?” he said; “poor devils, don’t they know who will be the real sufferers?” and then he told his lie as neatly as if the hour which might be his last were not even then ringing out from every clock in the city. “I heard a rumor of this before we left the table,” he said, “and have sent Frank to inquire into the truth of it. I hope he won’t get into trouble.” The fair Virginia gave a little scream. “Hadn’t we better have the carriage brought round, mamma?” she cried. “You don’t think they will attack our house, do you, Mr. Metzerott? Oh! dear me, why should they? I’m sure we never did anything to them!” “I think the police will be here before they could have time,” said Louis. “We telephoned the news of the riot as we came along. Indeed, for all of you to make your way to Mr. Dare’s will be much the best plan. I will stay here to meet them; perhaps, when they find no one whom they are angry with, they will not do any harm; or even if a few pictures and things were injured”— “I shall stay to defend my property,” said Henry Randolph, for it would never do, he thought, to miss that midnight train, and Dare’s house was three miles out of the city, “but if you will take my daughter with you, Mrs. Dare”— “I shall stay with my father,” said Pinkie. “You will not talk nonsense, but do as you are told,” said Mr. Randolph sharply. Pinkie’s red lips closed firmly, but she made no reply. The carriages—there were three of them—rattled around to the door in a shorter time than they had ever been got ready since they left the builders’ hands; the last to start, Mr. Dare’s, was to have taken Pinkie, but that young lady was nowhere to be found, nor did she reply to any calling of her name. “Oh! she must be in one of the other carriages,” cried Mrs. Dare, sobbing with terror; “Virgie, my dear, did you not see her drive off with your uncle in the phaeton?” “I dare say she did; some one was with him; but don’t ask me, mamma, for I’m too frightened to see anything.”