A few rods farther on, he came near running over the body of a wounded man who lay groaning by the wayside.  Every professional instinct urged him to stop and offer aid to the sufferer; but the uncertainty concerning his wife and child proved a stronger motive and urged him resistlessly forward.  Here and there the ominous sound of firearms was audible.  He might have thought this merely a part of the show, like the “powder play” of the Arabs, but for the bloody confirmation of its earnestness which had already assailed his vision.  Somewhere in this seething caldron of unrestrained passions were his wife and child, and he must hurry on.

His progress was painfully slow.  Three times he was stopped and searched.  More than once his way was barred, and he was ordered to turn back, each such occasion requiring a detour which consumed many minutes.  The man who last stopped him was a well-known Jewish merchant.  A Jew—­God of Moses!—­had so far forgotten twenty centuries of history as to join in the persecution of another oppressed race!  When almost reduced to despair by these innumerable delays, he perceived, coming toward him, Mr. Ellis, the sub-editor of the Morning Chronicle.  Miller had just been stopped and questioned again, and Ellis came up as he was starting once more upon his endless ride.

“Dr. Miller,” said Ellis kindly, “it is dangerous for you on the streets.  Why tempt the danger?”

“I am looking for my wife and child,” returned Miller in desperation.  “They are somewhere in this town,—­I don’t know where,—­and I must find them.”

Ellis had been horror-stricken by the tragedy of the afternoon, the wholly superfluous slaughter of a harmless people, whom a show of force would have been quite sufficient to overawe.  Elaborate explanations were afterwards given for these murders, which were said, perhaps truthfully, not to have been premeditated, and many regrets were expressed.  The young man had been surprised, quite as much as the negroes themselves, at the ferocity displayed.  His own thoughts and feelings were attuned to anything but slaughter.  Only that morning he had received a perfumed note, calling his attention to what the writer described as a very noble deed of his, and requesting him to call that evening and receive the writer’s thanks.  Had he known that Miss Pemberton, several weeks after their visit to the Sound, had driven out again to the hotel and made some inquiries among the servants, he might have understood better the meaning of this missive.  When Miller spoke of his wife and child, some subtle thread of suggestion coupled the note with Miller’s plight.  “I’ll go with you, Dr. Miller,” he said, “if you’ll permit me.  In my company you will not be disturbed.”

He took a seat in Miller’s buggy, after which it was not molested.

Neither of them spoke.  Miller was sick at heart; he could have wept with grief, even had the welfare of his own dear ones not been involved in this regrettable affair.  With prophetic instinct he foresaw the hatreds to which this day would give birth; the long years of constraint and distrust which would still further widen the breach between two peoples whom fate had thrown together in one community.