ound. We
were in a labyrinth of ruin, and our progress was slow.

The stockyards (ghetto, plant, and everything) were smouldering ruins.
Far off to the right a wide smoke haze dimmed the sky,--the town of
Pullman, the soldier chauffeur told us, or what had been the town of
Pullman, for it was utterly destroyed. He had driven the machine out
there, with despatches, on the afternoon of the third day. Some of the
heaviest fighting had occurred there, he said, many of the streets being
rendered impassable by the heaps of the dead.

Swinging around the shattered walls of a building, in the stockyards
district, the automobile was stopped by a wave of dead. It was for all
the world like a wave tossed up by the sea. It was patent to us what
had happened. As the mob charged past the corner, it had been swept, at
right angles and point-blank range, by the machine-guns drawn up on the
cross street. But disaster had come to the soldiers. A chance bomb must
have exploded among them, for the mob, checked until its dead and dying
formed the wave, had white-capped and flung forward its foam of living,
fighting slaves. Soldiers and slaves lay together, torn and mangled,
around and over the wreckage of the automobiles and guns.

Ernest sprang out. A familiar pair of shoulders in a cotton shirt and a
familiar fringe of white hair had caught his eye. I did not watch him,
and it was not until he was back beside me and we were speeding on that
he said:

"It was Bishop Morehouse."

Soon we were in the green country, and I took one last glance back at
the smoke-filled sky. Faint and far came the low thud of an explosion.
Then I turned my face against Ernest's breast and wept softly for the
Cause that was lost. Ernest's arm about me was eloquent with love.

"For this time lost, dear heart," he said, "but not forever. We have
learned. To-morrow the Cause will rise again, strong with wisdom and
discipline."

The automobile drew up at a railroad station. Here we would catch a
train to New York. As we waited on the platform, three trains thundered
past, bound west to Chicago. They were crowded with ragged, unskilled
laborers, people of the abyss.

"Slave-levies for the rebuilding of Chicago," Ernest said. "You see, the
Chicago slaves are all killed."

CHAPTER XXV

THE TERRORISTS

It was not until Ernest and I were back in New York, and after weeks had
elapsed, that we were able to comprehend thoroughly the full sweep of
the dis