Miller’s heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife and child.  This story was preposterous; it could not be true, and yet there must be something in it.  He tried to question his informant, but the man was so overcome with excitement and fear that Miller saw clearly that he must go farther for information.  He had read in the Morning Chronicle, a few days before, the obnoxious editorial quoted from the Afro-American Banner, and had noted the comment upon it by the white editor.  He had felt, as at the time of its first publication, that the editorial was ill-advised.  It could do no good, and was calculated to arouse the animosity of those whose friendship, whose tolerance, at least, was necessary and almost indispensable to the colored people.  They were living, at the best, in a sort of armed neutrality with the whites; such a publication, however serviceable elsewhere, could have no other effect in Wellington than to endanger this truce and defeat the hope of a possible future friendship.  The right of free speech entitled Barber to publish it; a larger measure of common-sense would have made him withhold it.  Whether it was the republication of this article that had stirred up anew the sleeping dogs of race prejudice and whetted their thirst for blood, he could not yet tell; but at any rate, there was mischief on foot.

“Fer God’s sake, doctuh, don’ go no closeter ter dat town,” pleaded his informant, “er you’ll be killt sho’.  Come on wid us, suh, an’ tek keer er yo’se’f.  We’re gwine ter hide in de swamps till dis thing is over!”

“God, man!” exclaimed Miller, urging his horse forward, “my wife and child are in the town!”

Fortunately, he reflected, there were no patients confined in the hospital,—­if there should be anything in this preposterous story.  To one unfamiliar with Southern life, it might have seemed impossible that these good Christian people, who thronged the churches on Sunday, and wept over the sufferings of the lowly Nazarene, and sent missionaries to the heathen, could be hungering and thirsting for the blood of their fellow men; but Miller cherished no such delusion.  He knew the history of his country; he had the threatened lynching of Sandy Campbell vividly in mind; and he was fully persuaded that to race prejudice, once roused, any horror was possible.  That women or children would be molested of set purpose he did not believe, but that they might suffer by accident was more than likely.

As he neared the town, dashing forward at the top of his horse’s speed, he heard his voice called in a loud and agitated tone, and, glancing around him, saw a familiar form standing by the roadside, gesticulating vehemently.

He drew up the horse with a suddenness that threw the faithful and obedient animal back upon its haunches.  The colored lawyer, Watson, came up to the buggy.  That he was laboring under great and unusual excitement was quite apparent from his pale face and frightened air.