At last the ride and the evening had an end.  The country and its dear delights were mere memories,—­fresh, it is true, but memories still, and no longer realities,—­in the luxurious rooms of their hotel.

Evidently Surrey had something to say, which he hesitated and feared to utter.  Again and again, when Francesca was talking of his plans and purposes, trusting and hoping that he might see no hard service, nor be called upon for any exposing duty, “not yet awhile,” she prayed, at least,—­again and again he made as if to speak, and then, ere she could notice the movement, shook his head with a gesture of silence, or—­she seeing it, and asking what it was he had to say—­found ready utterance for some other thought, and whispered to himself, “not yet; not quite yet.  Let her rest in peace a little space longer.”

They sat talking far into the night, this last night that they could spend together in so long a time,—­how long, God, with whom are hid the secrets of the future, could alone tell.  They talked of what had passed, which was ended,—­and of what was to come, which was not sure but full of hope,—­but of both with a feeling that quickened their heart-throbs, and brought happy tears to their eyes.

Twice or thrice a sound from some far distance, undecided, yet full of a solemn melody, came through the open window, borne to their ears on the still air of night,—­something so undefined as not consciously to arrest their attention, yet still penetrating their nerves and affecting some fine, inner sense of feeling, for both shivered as though a chill wind had blown across them, and Surrey—­half ashamed of the confession—­said, “I don’t know what possesses me, but I hear dead marches as plainly as though I were following a soldier’s funeral.”

Francesca at that grew white, crept closer to his breast, and spread out her arms as if to defend him by that slight shield from some impending danger; then both laughed at these foolish and superstitious fancies, and went on with their cheerful and tender talk.

Whatever the sound was, it grew plainer and came nearer; and, pausing to listen, they discovered it was a mighty swell of human voices and the marching of many feet.

“A regiment going through,” said they, and ran to the window to see if it passed their way, looking for it up the long street, which lay solemn and still in the moonlight.  On either side the palace-like houses stood stately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the magnificent avenue, from whence was banished every sight and sound of the busy life of day; not a noise, not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave nor a vestige of the great restless sea of humanity which a little space before surged through it, and which, in a little while to come, would rise and swell to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away once more into silence and nothingness.

Through this white stillness there came marching a regiment of men, without fife or drum, moving to the music of a refrain which lifted and fell on the quiet air.  It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic,—­and the two listeners presently distinguished the words,—­