A company of men with rifles at fixed bayonets were brought to the scene, and a force of men were compelled, at the point of the bayonet, to perform this sad, sad duty. One by one the dead were removed to the barge, everybody as naked as it had come into the world—men, women and children, black and white, all classes of society and station and condition, were represented in that putrid mass. The unwilling men who were performing this awful task were compelled to bind cloths about their nostrils while they were at work, and occasionally citizens passed whiskey among them to nerve them to their duty. Who can conceive of the horror of this? After awhile the seven hundred dead were piled upon the barge and a tug pulled them slowly out to sea. Eighteen miles out, where the sea was rolling high, amid the soughing white caps, with God’s benediction breathed in the moaning winds, all that was mortal of these seven hundred was consigned to the mystic caves of the deep. And yet, this was but another incident of the sad tragedy of which we write. STORIES OF SORROW. George H. Walker, of San Antonio, known well in theatrical circles, was a member of the party which struggled all day Tuesday to get to Galveston, and he landed late at night. It was an anxious day for him, for this was the city of his birth and before the storm he had six brothers and five sisters living here, in addition to his son, an aunt and his mother-in-law. He found his son safe and many other members of his family. They told him how the boy, Earl, a lad of 15, had at the height of the tempest placed his grandmother, Mrs. C. S. Johnson, on the roof of the house after it was floating in the current, and had made a second trip to bring his aunt to the roof. When the lad returned the grandmother was gone, finding in the raging current her final peace. The boy and his aunt, another Mrs. Johnson, clung to the roof throughout and successfully weathered the gale. George Walker found later on, however, that his brother Joe, and his stepbrother, Nick Donley, had been swept away to feed the fury of the storm. I met W. R. Knight, of Dallas, who arrived yesterday at noon. He told me that he had found his mother, two unmarried sisters and a married sister, Mrs. E. Webster, safe. But he, too, had his sorrow. A sister, Mrs. Ida Toothaker, and her daughter Etta, were lost, and his brother-in-law, E. Webster, Sr., and five children, Charley, George, Kenneth, Julia and Sarah, had joined the other two loved ones on the bosom of the unresting sea. How many stories of sorrow like this that remain to be told cannot now be numbered. The anxious people who have been straggling into Galveston from a distance have usually found some dear relative or many of them missing and numbered among the thousands who became in a few brief hours the victims of the remorseless furies.