Like the spring of a tiger, a blue arm shot out and a pistol flashed. One of the men sank, stunned, on the sidewalk, and another with a shattered arm rolled backward. “The brutes!” “Old Secesh” muttered, “and to think that these boys wear the blue!” They were passing a graveyard, and Mrs. Corbin touched Helen’s arm. “Look!” she exclaimed, in amazement. They were opening the graves. They laid Bessie down on the grass, not far from the old convent, and as they looked up they saw nuns and girls filing sadly out, the priest, with uplifted crucifix, leading the way. The convent had been fired. “I must see General Sherman!” Helen cried. “Auntie, stay here. I will go for a doctor and get aid, too.” “I will stay and guard the lady,” said “Old Secesh.” “I’ll go wid Miss Helen.” They turned and looked. Old Joe had found them. So they went in search of aid and a physician. They had gone scarcely a block, when Helen recognized Mandy, a neighbor’s cook. She was sitting on top of a great wagon full of furniture and household goods—mahogany chairs, china, paintings—and the coachman was driving the wagon. Thinking that Mandy had bravely rescued her mistress’s goods, Helen cried: “Mandy, where are you going?” “Laws a-massy,” came back the answer of the fat negress from over the top of the pearl-handled fan she was using, though it was the dead of winter. “Laws a-massy, chile, I sholy is gwine back into de Union.” And almost simultaneously Helen heard a moaning voice call to a neighbor in the darkness: “They have broken the chimes of St. Michael’s! What will Charleston do?” As they went on, scenes of horror were on every side. Stores were being gutted and their contents strewn into the streets. Hose, pierced with bayonet holes, lay over the sidewalks. Flaming camphine balls were firing every house that the wind had spared. Suddenly they were stopped by a crowd of men which blocked their pathway. In their midst was a reverend gentleman, and by his side was his wife. It was Mr. Shand, pastor of the church. “Open that box,” a soldier said. “Gentlemen, I have not the key,” the minister replied. “What’s the use o’ lyin’? What you got in there?” “It is the communion service of our church.” “Ach, mein Gott,” another broke in. “Vat a pious shentlemen!” A coarse, loud laugh followed. “Look here, hand us that key.” One of them took him by the collar. “I have told you I have not the key.” “Well, your watch, then.” “It is in the ashes of my home.” “Search him!” But they found nothing. Then the Dutchman spied old Joe, dressed in his best suit. “Hello, you tam plack nigger! Vot for you haf some fine shoes on your tam plack feet?” Old Joe looked bewildered. “Zhuck off dem poots.” “Marster, sholy you ain’t gwine ter take mah onliest pair o’ boots?” “Zhuck off dem poots, I tell you. Look at dees!” and his bayonet came alarmingly near Joe’s head. So the darky sat down regretfully and pulled his boots off.