On either side the palace-like houses stood stately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the magnificent avenue, from whence was banished every sight and sound of the busy life of day; not a noise, not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave nor a vestige of the great restless sea of humanity which a little space before surged through it, and which, in a little while to come, would rise and swell to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away once more into silence and nothingness.
Through this white stillness there came marching a regiment of men, without fife or drum, moving to the music of a refrain which lifted and fell on the quiet air.

It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic,--and the two listeners presently distinguished the words,-- "In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on." The effect of this; the thousand voices which sang; the marching of twice one thousand feet; the majesty of the words; the deserted street; the clear moonlight streaming over the men, reflected from their gleaming bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uniforms, illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed to wear--and probably _did_ wear--a look more solemn and earnest than that of common life and feeling,--the combined effect of it all was something indescribably impressive:--inspiring, yet solemn.
They stood watching and listening till the pageant had vanished, and then turned back into their room, Francesca taking up the refrain and singing the line, "As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on." Surrey's face brightened at the rapt expression of hers.

"Sing it again, dearie!" he said.

She sang it again.

"Do you mean it ?" he asked then.
"Can you sing it, and mean it with all your heart, for me ?" She looked at him with an expression of anxiety and pain.