“Shet up,” he said; “ef you can’t stan’ up like a man, keep still, and don’t interfere wid men w’at will fight!” The hospital, when Josh and his men took possession, had been found deserted.  Fortunately there were no patients for that day, except one or two convalescents, and these, with the attendants, had joined the exodus of the colored people from the town.

A white man advanced from the crowd without toward the main entrance to the hospital.  Big Josh, looking out from a window, grasped his gun more firmly, as his eyes fell upon the man who had murdered his father and darkened his mother’s life.  Mechanically he raised his rifle, but lowered it as the white man lifted up his hand as a sign that he wished to speak.

“You niggers,” called Captain McBane loudly,—­it was that worthy,—­“you niggers are courtin’ death, an’ you won’t have to court her but a minute er two mo’ befo’ she’ll have you.  If you surrender and give up your arms, you’ll be dealt with leniently,—­you may get off with the chain-gang or the penitentiary.  If you resist, you’ll be shot like dogs.”

“Dat’s no news, Mr. White Man,” replied Josh, appearing boldly at the window.  “We’re use’ ter bein’ treated like dogs by men like you.  If you w’ite people will go ‘long an’ ten’ ter yo’ own business an’ let us alone, we’ll ten’ ter ou’n.  You’ve got guns, an’ we’ve got jest as much right ter carry ’em as you have.  Lay down yo’n, an’ we’ll lay down ou’n,—­we didn’ take ’em up fust; but we ain’ gwine ter let you bu’n down ou’ chu’ches an’ school’ouses, er dis hospittle, an’ we ain’ comin’ out er dis house, where we ain’ disturbin’ nobody, fer you ter shoot us down er sen’ us ter jail.  You hear me!”

“All right,” responded McBane.  “You’ve had fair warning.  Your blood be on your”—­His speech was interrupted by a shot from the crowd, which splintered the window-casing close to Josh’s head.  This was followed by half a dozen other shots, which were replied to, almost simultaneously, by a volley from within, by which one of the attacking party was killed and another wounded.

This roused the mob to frenzy.

“Vengeance! vengeance!” they yelled.  “Kill the niggers!”

A negro had killed a white man,—­the unpardonable sin, admitting neither excuse, justification, nor extenuation.  From time immemorial it had been bred in the Southern white consciousness, and in the negro consciousness also, for that matter, that the person of a white man was sacred from the touch of a negro, no matter what the provocation.  A dozen colored men lay dead in the streets of Wellington, inoffensive people, slain in cold blood because they had been bold enough to question the authority of those who had assailed them, or frightened enough to flee when they had been ordered to stand still; but their lives counted nothing against that of a riotous white man, who had courted death by attacking a body of armed men.