Whichsoever way we turned seemed to be flame. The houses were consumed; the bricks of houses still standing were blackened; the air so thick with soot that we now all coughed and gagged at every step.

From every side, the roar of conflagration; the air was mobile with sparks and gentle black ghosts of ash. We feared for our powder.

All was acrid — down side-alleys, vistas of flame — walls collapsed — steeples burned — trees were reduced to hands of fire, plucking at the roofs — a distillery or magazine exploded distantly with a great roar —

Down a street, a detachment of the 14^th marched, their red coats rippling in the scarlet heat.

And we stood at the center, so it seemed; black men, blackened cart; white, smudged prisoner and officer; viewing the world turned to fire.