ther the sun shines or no, or care whether he lives or dies.
Slowly his senses steady themselves from the effects of a shock that
nearly destroyed him, and merciful time, with imperceptible touch,
softens day by day the outlines of that picture, at the memory of
which he will never cease to shudder while he lives.

Louis Wagner was captured in Boston on the evening of the next day
after his atrocious deed, and Friday morning, followed by a hooting
mob, he was taken to the Eastern depot. At every station along the
route crowds were assembled, and there were fierce cries for
vengeance. At the depot in Portsmouth a dense crowd of thousands of
both sexes had gathered, who assailed him with yells and curses and
cries of "Tear him to pieces!" It was with difficulty he was at last
safely imprisoned. Poor Maren was taken to Portsmouth from Appledore
on that day. The story of Wagner's day in Boston, like every other
detail of the affair, has been told by every newspaper in the country:
his agitation and restlessness, noted by all who saw him; his curious,
reckless talk. To one he says, "I have just killed two sailors;" to
another, Jacob Toldtman, into whose shop he goes to buy shoes, "I have
seen a woman lie as still as that boot," and so on. When he is caught
he puts on a bold face and determines to brave it out; denies
everything with tears and virtuous indignation. The men whom he has so
fearfully wronged are confronted with him; his attitude is one of
injured innocence; he surveys them more in sorrow than in anger, while
John is on fire with wrath and indignation, and hurls maledictions at
him; but Ivan, poor Ivan, hurt beyond all hope or help, is utterly
mute; he does not utter one word. Of what use is it to curse the
murderer of his wife? It will not bring her back; he has no heart for
cursing, he is too completely broken. Maren told me the first time she
was brought into Louis's presence, her heart leaped so fast she could
hardly breathe. She entered the room softly with her husband and
Mathew Jonsen's daughter. Louis was whittling a stick. He looked up
and saw her face, and the color ebbed out of his, and rushed back and
stood in one burning spot in his cheek, as he looked at her and she
looked at him for a space, in silence. Then he drew about his evil
mind the detestable garment of sanctimoniousness, and in sentimental
accents he murmured, "I'm glad Jesus loves me!" "The devil loves you!"
cried John, with uncompromisin