“The sun was going down on the second day, and there we stood, carefully holding back the window-curtain, and straining our eyes to catch the first glimpse of his coming, or of some messenger who could tell us of his safety. All at once, a sound of low, growling thunder rolled down one of the cross-streets, and before we could tell what it meant, a group of policemen came up the street, each man armed and resolute, but white as marble, with a knowledge of the fearful odds against them. The leader of these men, towering above them all, was my husband. He never once looked toward the house. Perhaps he feared that the sight of it would unman him. With a loud, ringing voice, that reached us where we stood, he gave some orders to his men, who ranged themselves across the street, from which danger threatened. In a moment they were swept back by a throng of rioters—swept back and scattered by a rush of overpowering numbers. A shot was fired, and one man fell—the tallest, the grandest. Oh, God, help me!—the bravest of them all. I saw him go down. I saw the mob trample over him with yells of rage. His groans, his death-agony are unheeded as the stones under those brutal feet. “I never knew how it was done, but in a moment I was struggling and buffeting my way through that avalanche of human fiends, as drowning men fight with the surging waters of a flood. Perhaps they had some compassion; or, it may be, that my white face frightened them, for the crowd broke where he was lying, and scattered away, tracking his blood upon the pavement as they went. I fell down on my knees by his side. I laid my hand on his heart, and drew it away wet and red. His eyes were open; but they could not see his poor wife; his lips were parted beneath the shadow of his beard, which the wind stirred, and it seemed to me that he was speaking. But, no; his murderers had done their work well. I knelt down upon those hot, dusty stones and covered my face, that they might not look upon the agony of my grief. “Eva had followed me, and the little ones had clung to her shivering and crying as she pressed through the crowd. We were all together—his little family, wife and children—but he was dead. They would not believe it, but called upon him with feeble cries to look up and say that he was not much hurt. I knew that he was dead; that they were orphans, and _I_, his wife, a widow.” CHAPTER XV. ARTIST SYMPATHY.