Carteret, having reached the front of the mob, made an effort to gain their attention.

“Gentlemen!” he cried in his loudest tones.  His voice, unfortunately, was neither loud nor piercing.

“Kill the niggers!” clamored the mob.

“Gentlemen, I implore you”—­

The crash of a dozen windows, broken by stones and pistol shots, drowned his voice.

“Gentlemen!” he shouted; “this is murder, it is madness; it is a disgrace to our city, to our state, to our civilization!”

“That’s right!” replied several voices.  The mob had recognized the speaker.  “It is a disgrace, and we’ll not put up with it a moment longer.  Burn ’em out!  Hurrah for Major Carteret, the champion of ’white supremacy’!  Three cheers for the Morning Chronicle and ’no nigger domination’!”

“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” yelled the crowd.

In vain the baffled orator gesticulated and shrieked in the effort to correct the misapprehension.  Their oracle had spoken; not hearing what he said, they assumed it to mean encouragement and cooeperation.  Their present course was but the logical outcome of the crusade which the Morning Chronicle had preached, in season and out of season, for many months.  When Carteret had spoken, and the crowd had cheered him, they felt that they had done all that courtesy required, and he was good-naturedly elbowed aside while they proceeded with the work in hand, which was now to drive out the negroes from the hospital and avenge the killing of their comrade.

Some brought hay, some kerosene, and others wood from a pile which had been thrown into a vacant lot near by.  Several safe ways of approach to the building were discovered, and the combustibles placed and fired.  The flames, soon gaining a foothold, leaped upward, catching here and there at the exposed woodwork, and licking the walls hungrily with long tongues of flame.

Meanwhile a desultory firing was kept up from the outside, which was replied to scatteringly from within the hospital.  Those inside were either not good marksmen, or excitement had spoiled their aim.  If a face appeared at a window, a dozen pistol shots from the crowd sought the spot immediately.

Higher and higher leaped the flames.  Suddenly from one of the windows sprang a black figure, waving a white handkerchief.  It was Jerry Letlow.  Regaining consciousness after the effect of Josh’s blow had subsided, Jerry had kept quiet and watched his opportunity.  From a safe vantage-ground he had scanned the crowd without, in search of some white friend.  When he saw Major Carteret moving disconsolately away after his futile effort to stem the torrent, Jerry made a dash for the window.  He sprang forth, and, waving his handkerchief as a flag of truce, ran toward Major Carteret, shouting frantically:—­

“Majah Carteret—­O majah!  It’s me, suh, Jerry, suh!  I didn’ go in dere myse’f, suh—­I wuz drag’ in dere!  I wouldn’ do nothin’ ’g’inst de w’ite folks, suh,—­no, ‘ndeed, I wouldn’, suh!”