Slowly the day passed away, and once more the evening breeze found its way through the barred windows of the prison that contained these injured sons and daughters of America.

The clock on the calaboose had just struck nine on Monday morning, when hundreds of persons were seen threading the gates and doors of the negro-pen.

It was the same gang that had the day previous been stepping to the tune and keeping time with the musical church bells.

Their Bibles were not with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and even their long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week.

They had come to the man-market to make their purchases.