“Neither is this a mere sporadic crime,” Carteret went on.  “It is symptomatic; it is the logical and inevitable result of the conditions which have prevailed in this town for the past year.  It is the last straw.”

“Burn the nigger,” reiterated McBane.  “We seem to have the right nigger, but whether we have or not, burn a nigger.  It is an assault upon the white race, in the person of old Mrs. Ochiltree, committed by the black race, in the person of some nigger.  It would justify the white people in burning any nigger.  The example would be all the more powerful if we got the wrong one.  It would serve notice on the niggers that we shall hold the whole race responsible for the misdeeds of each individual.”

“In ancient Rome,” said the general, “when a master was killed by a slave, all his slaves were put to the sword.”

“We couldn’t afford that before the war,” said McBane, “but the niggers don’t belong to anybody now, and there’s nothing to prevent our doing as we please with them.  A dead nigger is no loss to any white man.  I say, burn the nigger.”

“I do not believe,” said Carteret, who had gone to the window and was looking out,—­“I do not believe that we need trouble ourselves personally about his punishment.  I should judge, from the commotion in the street, that the public will take the matter into its own hands.  I, for one, would prefer that any violence, however justifiable, should take place without my active intervention.”

“It won’t take place without mine, if I know it,” exclaimed McBane, starting for the door.

“Hold on a minute, captain,” exclaimed Carteret.  “There’s more at stake in this matter than the life of a black scoundrel.  Wellington is in the hands of negroes and scalawags.  What better time to rescue it?”

“It’s a trifle premature,” replied the general.  “I should have preferred to have this take place, if it was to happen, say three months hence, on the eve of the election,—­but discussion always provokes thirst with me; I wonder if I could get Jerry to bring us some drinks?”

Carteret summoned the porter.  Jerry’s usual manner had taken on an element of self-importance, resulting in what one might describe as a sort of condescending obsequiousness.  Though still a porter, he was also a hero, and wore his aureole.

“Jerry,” said the general kindly, “the white people are very much pleased with the assistance you have given them in apprehending this scoundrel Campbell.  You have rendered a great public service, Jerry, and we wish you to know that it is appreciated.”

“Thank y’, gin’l, thank y’, suh!  I alluz tries ter do my duty, suh, an’ stan’ by dem dat stan’s by me.  Dat low-down nigger oughter be lynch’, suh, don’t you think, er e’se bu’nt?  Dere ain’ nothin’ too bad ter happen ter ’im.”

“No doubt he will be punished as he deserves, Jerry,” returned the general, “and we will see that you are suitably rewarded.  Go across the street and get me three Calhoun cocktails.  I seem to have nothing less than a two-dollar bill, but you may keep the change, Jerry,—­all the change.”