At this instant a voice called, “This way! this way!  For God’s sake! quick! quick!” and he saw a friendly black face and hand thrust from an area window.  Still covering with his body his defenceless charge, he moved rapidly towards this refuge.  Rapid as was the motion, it was not speedy enough; he reached the railing, caught her with his one powerful arm, imbued now with a giant’s strength, flung her over to the waiting hands that seized and dragged her in, pausing for an instant, ere he leaped himself, to beat back a half-dozen of the foremost miscreants, who would else have captured their prey, just vanishing from sight.  Sublime, yet fatal delay! but an instant, yet in that instant a thousand forms surrounded him, disarmed him, overcame him, and beat him down.

Meanwhile what of Francesca?  The morning passed, and with its passing came terrible rumors of assault and death.  The afternoon began, wore on,—­the rumors deepened to details of awful facts and realities; and he—­he, with his courage, his fatal dress—­was absent, was on those death-crowded streets.  She wandered from room to room, forgetting her reserve, and accosting every soul she met for later news,—­for information which, received, did but torture her with more intolerable pangs, and send her to her knees; though, kneeling, she could not pray, only cry out in some dumb, inarticulate fashion, “God be merciful!”

The afternoon was spent; the day gone; the summet twilight deepening into night; and still he did not come.  She had caught up her hat and mantle with some insane intention of rushing into the wide, wild city, on a frenzied search, when two gentlemen passing by her door, talking of the all-absorbing theme, arrested her ear and attention.

“The house ought to be guarded!  These devils will be here presently,—­they are on the Avenue now.”

“Good God! are you certain?”

“Certain.”

“You may well be,” said a third voice, as another step joined theirs.  “They are just above Thirtieth Street.  I was coming down the Avenue, and saw them myself.  I don’t know what my fate would have been in this dress,”—­Francesca knew from this that he who talked was of the police or soldiery,—­“but they were engaged in fighting a young officer, who made a splendid defence before they cut him down; his courage was magnificent.  It makes my blood curdle to think of it.  A fair-haired, gallant-looking fellow, with only one arm.  I could do nothing for him, of course, and should have been killed had I stayed; so I ran for life.  But I don’t think I’ll ever quite forgive myself for not rushing to the rescue, and taking my chance with him.”

She did not stay to hear the closing words.  Out of the room, past them, like a spirit,—­through the broad halls,—­down the wide stairways,—­on to the street,—­up the long street, deserted here, but O, with what a crowd beyond!