“What on earth can be the matter?” he muttered, struck with a vague feeling of alarm.  A psychologist, seeking to trace the effects of slavery upon the human mind, might find in the South many a curious illustration of this curse, abiding long after the actual physical bondage had terminated.  In the olden time the white South labored under the constant fear of negro insurrections.  Knowing that they themselves, if in the negroes’ place, would have risen in the effort to throw off the yoke, all their reiterated theories of negro subordination and inferiority could not remove that lurking fear, founded upon the obscure consciousness that the slaves ought to have risen.  Conscience, it has been said, makes cowards of us all.  There was never, on the continent of America, a successful slave revolt, nor one which lasted more than a few hours, or resulted in the loss of more than a few white lives; yet never was the planter quite free from the fear that there might be one.

On the other hand, the slave had before his eyes always the fear of the master.  There were good men, according to their lights,—­according to their training and environment,—­among the Southern slaveholders, who treated their slaves kindly, as slaves, from principle, because they recognized the claims of humanity, even under the dark skin of a human chattel.  There was many a one who protected or pampered his negroes, as the case might be, just as a man fondles his dog,—­because they were his; they were a part of his estate, an integral part of the entity of property and person which made up the aristocrat; but with all this kindness, there was always present, in the consciousness of the lowest slave, the knowledge that he was in his master’s power, and that he could make no effectual protest against the abuse of that authority.  There was also the knowledge, among those who could think at all, that the best of masters was himself a slave to a system, which hampered his movements but scarcely less than those of his bondmen.

When, therefore, Miller saw these men and women scampering into the bushes, he divined, with this slumbering race consciousness which years of culture had not obliterated, that there was some race trouble on foot.  His intuition did not long remain unsupported.  A black head was cautiously protruded from the shrubbery, and a black voice—­if such a description be allowable—­addressed him:—­

“Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?”

“Yes.  Who are you, and what’s the trouble?”

“What’s de trouble, suh?  Why, all hell’s broke loose in town yonduh.  De w’ite folks is riz ‘gins’ de niggers, an’ say dey’re gwine ter kill eve’y nigger dey kin lay han’s on.”