“Not your special reason.  What was it?”

“I had waited so long, you see,—­I, and my people,—­for a chance.  It made me quite wild to watch this big fight go on, and know that it was all about us, and not be allowed to participate; and at last when the chance came, and the summons, and the way was opened, I couldn’t answer, nor go.  It’s not the dying I care for; I’d be willing to die the first battle I was in; but I want to do something for the cause before death comes.”

The book was lying open where it had fallen from his hand, and Surrey, glancing down at the very poem of which he spoke, said gently, “Here is your answer, Franklin, better than any I can make; it ought to comfort you; listen, it is God’s truth!

  ’O power to do!  O baffled will! 
    O prayer and action! ye are one;
  Who may not strive may yet fulfil
  The harder task of standing still,
    And good but wished with God is done!’”

“It is so,” said Abram.  “You act and I pray, and you act for me and mine.  I’d like to be under you when you get the troops you were telling me about; but—­God knows best.”

Surrey sat gazing earnestly into space, crowded by emotions called up by these last words, whilst Abram lay watching him with admiring and loving eyes.  “For me and mine,” he repeated softly, his look fastening on the blue sleeve, which hung, limp and empty, near his hand.  This he put out cautiously, but drew it back at some slight movement from his companion; then, seeing that he was still absorbed, advanced it, once more, and slowly, timidly, gently, lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips upon it as upon a shrine.  “For me and mine!” he whispered,—­“for me and mine!” tears dimming the pathetic, dying eyes.

The peaceful quiet was broken by a tempest of awful sound,—­groans and shrieks and yells mingled in horrible discord, blended with the trampling of many feet,—­noises which seemed to their startled and excited fancies like those of hell itself.  The next moment a door was flung open; and Mrs. Franklin, bruised, lame, her garments torn, blood flowing from a cut on her head, staggered into the room.  “O Lord!  O Lord Jesus!” she cried, “the day of wrath has come!” and fell, shuddering and crying, on the floor.

CHAPTER XVIII

  “Will the future come?  It seems that we may almost ask
  this question, when we see such terrible shadow.”

  VICTOR HUGO

Here it will be necessary to consider some facts which, while they are rather in the domain of the grave recorder of historical events, than in that of the narrator of personal experiences, are yet essential to the comprehension of the scenes in which Surrey and Francesca took such tragic parts.