Miller realized that his buggy, by attracting attention, had been a hindrance rather than a help in his progress across the city.  In order to follow his wife, he must practically retrace his steps over the very route he had come.  Night was falling.  It would be easier to cross the town on foot.  In the dusk his own color, slight in the daytime, would not attract attention, and by dodging in the shadows he might avoid those who might wish to intercept him.  But he must reach Janet and the boy at any risk.  He had not been willing to throw his life away hopelessly, but he would cheerfully have sacrificed it for those whom he loved.

He had gone but a short distance, and had not yet reached the centre of mob activity, when he intercepted a band of negro laborers from the cotton compress, with big Josh Green at their head.

“Hello, doctuh!” cried Josh, “does you wan’ ter jine us?”

“I’m looking for my wife and child, Josh.  They’re somewhere in this den of murderers.  Have any of you seen them?”

No one had seen them.

“You men are running a great risk,” said Miller.  “You are rushing on to certain death.”

“Well, suh, maybe we is; but we’re gwine ter die fightin’.  Dey say de w’ite folks is gwine ter bu’n all de cullud schools an’ chu’ches, an’ kill all de niggers dey kin ketch.  Dey’re gwine ter bu’n yo’ new hospittle, ef somebody don’ stop ’em.”

“Josh—­men—­you are throwing your lives away.  It is a fever; it will wear off to-morrow, or to-night.  They’ll not burn the schoolhouses, nor the hospital—­they are not such fools, for they benefit the community; and they’ll only kill the colored people who resist them.  Every one of you with a gun or a pistol carries his death warrant in his own hand.  I’d rather see the hospital burn than have one of you lose his life.  Resistance only makes the matter worse,—­the odds against you are too long.”

“Things can’t be any wuss, doctuh,” replied one of the crowd sturdily.  “A gun is mo’ dange’ous ter de man in front of it dan ter de man behin’ it.  Dey’re gwine ter kill us anyhow; an’ we’re tired,—­we read de newspapers,—­an’ we’re tired er bein’ shot down like dogs, widout jedge er jury.  We’d ruther die fightin’ dan be stuck like pigs in a pen!”

“God help you!” said Miller.  “As for me, I must find my wife and child.”

“Good-by, doctuh,” cried Josh, brandishing a huge knife. “’Member ’bout de ole ‘oman, ef you lives thoo dis.  Don’ fergit de headbo’d an’ de footbo’d, an’ a silver plate on de coffin, ef dere’s money ernuff.”