All through the night of May 25th the casket containing the body of the victim reposed on the catafalque in the First Cavalry Armory. At each corner of the catafalque a sentry, in the uniform of the Hibernian Rifles, stood immovable as a statue. It was a lonely vigil, and it was not broken until six o'clock of the Sabbath morning. Even at that early hour, while the church bells were ringing out their summons to those accustomed to attend the first or daylight mass, a large crowd had gathered outside of the Armory. Half an hour later a squad of the Central Police detail, under command of Lieutenant Wilson, arrived at the building. The officers were drawn up in two lines on either side of the entrance, the doors were thrown open, and the people in waiting commenced to enter. And so for hours a living stream poured into the building, and past the catafalque, with its draping of American flags, its burning candles and golden crucifix, and its tributes of ferns and roses, hyacinths and daisies which reposed at the head and feet of the casket. They came in so rapidly that the attempt to keep a count was soon abandoned. There were old men and young; girls and white-haired matrons. Children hardly able to toddle led the aged men, walking with faltering, uncertain steps. Parents took their little ones, and the little ones their grandparents. Laborers walked beside bankers, mechanics ascended the platform elbow to elbow with citizens of national eminence, and together they looked down on the face of the victim of a murder that was without parallel in the history of the country. There were many rough and tough looking men in the throng, but their heads were bowed and their footsteps light as they passed by the coffin. There was no need to caution any one to be quiet. The air of solemnity and quiet hushed the least respectful, and those possessed of the least feeling. It was a memorable scene. A GREAT PROCESSION.