Surrey fled to the other side of the room, and, cowering down, buried his head in his arm to shut out the awful sight and sounds.  But his mother,—­O marvellous, inscrutable mystery of mother-love!—­his mother knelt by the open window, near which hung her boy, and prayed aloud, that he might hear, for the wrung body and passing soul.  Great God! that such things were possible, and thy heavens fell not!  Through the sound of falling blows, reviling oaths, and hideous blasphemy, through the crackling of burning fagots and lifting flames, there went out no cry for mercy, no shriek of pain, no wail of despair.  But when the torture was almost ended, and nature had yielded to this work of fiends, the dying face was turned towards his mother,—­the eyes, dim with the veil that falls between time and eternity, seeking her eyes with their latest glance,—­the voice, not weak, but clear and thrilling even in death, cried for her ear, “Be of good cheer, mother! they may kill the body, but they cannot touch the soul!” and even with the words the great soul walked with God.

* * * * *

After a while the mob melted out of the street to seek new scenes of ravage and death; not, however, till they had marked the house, as those within learned, for the purpose of returning, if it should so please them, at some future time.

When they were all gone, and the way was clear, these two—­the mother that bore him, the elegant patrician who instinctively shrank from all unpleasant and painful things—­took down the poor charred body, and carrying it carefully and tenderly into the house of a trembling neighbor, who yet opened her doors and bade them in, composed it decently for its final rest.

It was drawing towards evening, and Surrey was eager to get away from this terrible region,—­both to take the heart-stricken woman, thus thrown upon his care, to some place of rest and safety, and to reassure Francesca, who, he knew, would be filled with maddening anxiety and fear at his long absence.

At length they ventured forth:  no one was in the square;—­turned at Fortieth Street,—­all clear;—­went on with hasty steps to the Avenue,—­not a soul in sight.  “Safe,—­thank God!” exclaimed Surrey, as he hurried his companion onward.  Half the space to their destination had been crossed, when a band of rioters, rushing down the street from the sack and burning of the Orphan Asylum, came upon them.  Defence seemed utterly vain.  Every house was shut; its windows closed and barred; its inmates gathered in some rear room.  Escape and hope appeared alike impossible; but Surrey, flinging his charge behind him, with drawn sword, face to the on-sweeping hordes, backed down the street.  The combination—­a negro woman, a soldier’s uniform—­intensified the mad fury of the mob, which was nevertheless held at bay by the heroic front and gleaming steel of their single adversary.  Only for a moment!  Then, not venturing near him, a shower of bricks and stones hurtled through the air, falling about and upon him.