“And I suppose you’re merely keeping in practice on these other fellows who come your way.  When I get your arm dressed, you’d better leave town till that fellow’s boat sails; it may save you the expense of a trial and three months in the chain-gang.  But this talk about killing a man is all nonsense.  What has any man in this town done to you, that you should thirst for his blood?”

“No, suh, it ain’ nonsense,—­it’s straight, solem’ fac’.  I’m gwine ter kill dat man as sho’ as I’m settin’ in dis cheer; an’ dey ain’ nobody kin say I ain’ got a right ter kill ’im.  Does you ’member de Ku-Klux?” “Yes, but I was a child at the time, and recollect very little about them.  It is a page of history which most people are glad to forget.”

“Yas, suh; I was a chile, too, but I wuz right in it, an’ so I ’members mo’ erbout it ‘n you does.  My mammy an’ daddy lived ’bout ten miles f’m here, up de river.  One night a crowd er w’ite men come ter ou’ house an’ tuck my daddy out an’ shot ‘im ter death, an’ skeered my mammy so she ain’ be’n herse’f f’m dat day ter dis.  I wa’n’t mo’ ’n ten years ole at de time, an’ w’en my mammy seed de w’ite men comin’, she tol’ me ter run.  I hid in de bushes an’ seen de whole thing, an’ it wuz branded on my mem’ry, suh, like a red-hot iron bran’s de skin.  De w’ite folks had masks on, but one of ’em fell off,—­he wuz de boss, he wuz de head man, an’ tol’ de res’ w’at ter do,—­an’ I seen his face.  It wuz a easy face ter ‘member; an’ I swo’ den, ’way down deep in my hea’t, little ez I wuz, dat some day er ’nother I’d kill dat man.  I ain’t never had no doubt erbout it; it’s jus’ w’at I’m livin’ fer, an’ I know I ain’ gwine ter die till I’ve done it.  Some lives fer one thing an’ some fer another, but dat’s my job.  I ain’ be’n in no has’e, fer I’m not ole yit, an’ dat man is in good health.  I’d like ter see a little er de worl’ befo’ I takes chances on leavin’ it sudden; an’, mo’over, somebody’s got ter take keer er de ole ’oman.  But her time’ll come some er dese days, an den his time’ll be come—­an’ prob’ly mine.  But I ain’ keerin’ ‘bout myse’f:  w’en I git thoo wid him, it won’ make no diff’ence ’bout me.”

Josh was evidently in dead earnest.  Miller recalled, very vividly, the expression he had seen twice on his patient’s face, during the journey to Wellington.

He had often seen Josh’s mother, old Aunt Milly,—­“Silly Milly,” the children called her,—­wandering aimlessly about the street, muttering to herself incoherently.  He had felt a certain childish awe at the sight of one of God’s creatures who had lost the light of reason, and he had always vaguely understood that she was the victim of human cruelty, though he had dated it farther back into the past.  This was his first knowledge of the real facts of the case.