At dinner poor Mr. Phillips was looking somewhat better.  He had a great many questions to ask his son about the insurrection.

“Arthur,” he said, “if the bad man and his accomplices, who so cruelly used me, should be made prisoners, I beg you, as a favor to me, not to punish them.  Leave them to God and their own consciences.”

“I shall,” said Max, quietly.

Mrs. Phillips heartily approved of this sentiment.  I looked down at my plate, but before my eyes there came a dreadful picture of that fortress of flame, with the chained man in the midst, and high above it I could see, swung through the air by powerful arms, manacled figures, who descended, shrieking, into the vortex of fire.

After many injunctions to his guards, to look well after the house, Max and I, well armed and wearing our red crosses, and accompanied by two of our most trusted men, sallied forth through the back gate.

What a scene!  Chaos; had come.  There were no cars or carriages.  Thieves and murderers were around us; scenes of rapine and death on every hand.  We moved together in a body; our magazine rifles ready for instant use.

Our red crosses protected us from the members of the Brotherhood; and the thieves gave our guns a wide berth.  At a street crossing we encountered a wagon-load of dead bodies; they were being hauled to the monument.  The driver, one of the Brotherhood, recognized Max, and invited us to seats beside him.  Familiarity makes death as natural as life.  We accepted his offer—­one of our men sitting on the tailboard of the wagon; and in this gory chariot we rode slowly through Broadway, deserted now by everything but crime.  The shops had all been broken open; dead bodies lay here and there; and occasionally a burned block lifted its black arms appealingly to heaven.  As we drew near to Union Square a wonderful sight—­such as the world had never before beheld—­expanded before us.  Great blazing bonfires lighted the work; hundreds of thousands had gathered to behold the ghastly structure, the report of which had already spread everywhere.  These men nearly all belonged to the Brotherhood, or were members of the lower orders, who felt that they had nothing to fear from insurrection.  There were many women among them, and not a few thieves, who, drawn by curiosity, for awhile forgot their opportunities and their instincts.  Within the great outer circle of dark and passionate and exultant faces, there was another assemblage of a very different appearance.  These were the prisoners at work upon the monument.  Many of them were gray-haired; some were bloody from wounds upon their heads or bodies; they were all pale and terrified; not a few were in rags, or half naked, their clothes having been literally torn from their backs.  They were dejected, and yet moved with alacrity, in fear of the whips or clubs in the hands of their masters, who passed among them, filling the air with oaths.  Max pointed out to me prominent merchants, lawyers and clergymen.  They were all dazed-looking, like men after a terrific earthquake, who had lost confidence in the stability of everything.  It was Anarchy personified:—­the men of intellect were doing the work; the men of muscle were giving the orders.  The under-rail had come on top.  It reminded me of Swift’s story of the country where the men were servants to the horses.