The clock in St. Michael’s tall spire has just struck two, as, in the arena of the prison, Nicholas is seen, halted in front of his little band, calmly awaiting the advance of his adversaries, who, fearing to open the great gates, have scaled the long line of wall on the north side.  Suddenly the sound of an imploring voice breaks upon his ear, and his left hand is firmly grasped, as starting with surprise he turns and beholds the slave woman, her hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, and her face bathed in tears.  With simple but earnest words does she admonish him against his fatal resolution.  Fast, and in the bitter anguish of her soul, fall her implorings; she would have him yield and save his life, that she may love him still.  Her words would melt his resolution, had he not taken the rash step.  “In my soul do I love thee, woman!” he says, raising her gently to her feet, and imprinting a kiss upon her olive brow; “but rather would I die a hero than live a crawling slave:  nay, I will love thee in heaven!” The woman has drawn his attention from his adversaries, when, in that which seems a propitious moment, they rush down from the walls, and ere a cry from his band warn him of the danger, have well nigh surprised and secured him.  With two shots of a revolver pierced through the fleshy part of his left arm, does he bound from the grasp of his pursuers, rally his men, and charge upon the miscreants with undaunted courage.  Short but deadly is the struggle that here ensues; far, indeed, shrieks and horrid groans rend the very air; but the miscreants are driven back from whence they came, leaving on the ground five dead bodies to atone for treble the number dead of our hero’s band.  In the savage conflict did the woman receive a fatal bullet, and now lies writhing in the agonies of death (a victim of oppression in a land of liberty) at our hero’s feet.  Not a moment is there to spare, that he may soothe her dying agonies, for a thundering at the great gates is heard, the bristling of fire-arms falls upon his ear, and the drums of the military without beat to the charge.  Simultaneously the great gates swing back, a solid body of citizen soldiery, ready to rush in, is disclosed, and our hero, as if by instinct moved to rashness, cries aloud to his forces, who, following his lead, dash recklessly into the soldiery, scatter it in amazement, and sweep triumphantly into the street.  The first line of soldiery did not yield to the impetuous charge without effect, for seven dead bodies, strewn between the portals of the gate, account for the sharp report of their rifles.  Wild with rage, and not knowing whither to go, or for what object they have rushed from the bounds of their prison house, our forlorn band, still flourishing their battle hammers, have scarcely reached the second line of military, stationed, in war order, a few squares from the prison, when our hero and nine of his forlorn band fall pierced through the hearts with rifle bullets.  Our Nicholas has a sudden end; he dies, muttering, “My cause was only justice!” as twenty democratic bayonets cut into shreds his quivering body.  Oh, Grabguy! thou wilt one day be made to atone for this thy guilt.  Justice to thy slave had saved the city its foreboding of horror, and us the recital of a bloody tragedy we would spare the feelings of our readers by ending here.