s fiery sea rode the fleet.

Although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the
conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the
river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces.

At Bijou a line of men--not the Riffraffs--sat astride the cannon, over
the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats.

"I tell yer deze heah Yankees mus' be monst'ous-sized men. Look at de
big eye-holes 'longside o' de ship," said one--a young black fellow.

"Eye-holes!" retorted an old man sitting apart; "dem ain't no eye-holes,
chillen. Dey gun-holes! Dat what dey is! An' ef you don't keep yo'
faces straight dey'll 'splode out on you 'fo' you know it."

The first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen
following. The old man sat unmoved. Presently a little woolly head
peered over the bank.

"What de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'dad?"

"Name _Freedom_." The old man answered without moving. "Freedom comin'
wid guns in 'er mouf, ready to spit fire, I tell yer!"

"Jeems, heah, say all de no-'count niggers is gwine be sol' over
ag'in--is dat so, gran'dad?"

"Yas; every feller gwine be sol' ter 'isself. An' a mighty onery,
low-down marster heap ob 'em 'll git, too."

* * * * *

It was nearly day when Captain Doc, pale and haggard, joined the crowd
upon the levee.

As he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing the provocation of his
military hat, begged him to remove it.

It might provoke a volley.

Raising the hat, the captain turned and solemnly addressed the crowd:

"My countrymen," he began, and his voice trembled, "the Riffraffs are
disbanded. See!"

He threw the red-plumed thing far out upon the water. And then he turned
to them.

"I have just seen an angel pass--to enter--yonder." A sob closed his
throat as he pointed to the sky.

"Her pure blood is on my hands--and, by the help of God, they will shed
no more.

"These old guns are playthings--we are broken old men.

"Let us pray."

And there, out in the glare of the awful fiery spectacle, grown weird in
the faint white light of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer--prayer
first for forgiveness of false pride and folly--for the women and
children--- for the end of the war--for lasting peace.

It was a scene to be remembered. Had anything been lacking in its awful
solemnity, it was supplied with a tender potency reaching all hearts, in
the knowledge of