A demoniac howl of delight arose from the drunken, blood-thirsty throng on his approach; and as each victim arrived, the “high-toned gentleman” and “chivalrous General and his aids applauded their subordinates with—“Good! boys, good! (with oaths). Turn your hounds loose, and bring the last nigger in! Can’t you find that—Capt. Doc?” There Corporal Free found his first and second lieutenants, and with them and the others he was compelled to sit down in the dust of the street. While Capt. Doc stood at the back of Marmor’s office, undecided which way to flee, and hearing the work of destruction and the pleadings of the captured man within, he looked across the gardens to his own house, and saw it all alight, and men there breaking furniture, pictures and mirrors dashing upon the floor, and destroying beds and clothing. They had also commenced to scour the entire square for their prey. He leaped a fence which separated Marmor’s back yard from his garden, and as he did so a gruff voice called “Halt!” At the same instant the old time slave-hunter Baker, rushed from Dan Lemfield’s back door, pistol in hand, and fired. “—— —— him! I’ve got him!” said the gray-haired sinner, as he stooped to examine what had a moment before been the habitation of an immortal soul, now fled for protection to the High Court of the Universe. Urged by his host, the old man re-entered the house, repeating as a sweet morsel to his tongue, “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” though ignorant what “nigger” he had got. _But had he?_ “Fear not them which can kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do.” Our Captain now crept softly through the little cornfield which occupied the centre of the square, diagonally, to the extreme corner; to the dwelling and office of the Postmaster, and made his way to a second-story verandah which extended the entire length and breadth of the two rear sides of the edifice. This verandah was thickly latticed, but a few strips were broken off, high up on the end next Market street. There he stood, looking down upon “the dead-ring” we have already described, till day lit the east. Mann Harris was a large, black man—a porter in a store in the city opposite, and he sat among the other prisoners in the dust of the street almost beneath Doc’s feet. Having conveyed his invalid wife to a place of safety, he had returned to protect his property. He sauntered about the streets, watching the current of events while that remained safe, and then retired to his own dwelling, probably supposing that “every man’s house is his castle,” and he would there be at once beyond the reach of attack, and the temptation to resentment. Peeping down from a second-story window (for he closed the house to give it the appearance of being deserted), he saw ‘old man Baker’ and his son Hanson standing at the corner of his house, pistols in hands. His inoffensive neighbor Pincksney approached, and was about to pass. “Where are you going?” demanded Baker.