John touched the horses.  “You’re particularly cheerful to-day!”

“No.  I merely summarize what I’m seeing.”

“Well, a moral awakening will come,” he declared.

“Inevitably.  To-morrow, perhaps.  The flesh has had a good, long, prosperous day, and the hour of the spirit must be near striking.  And the moral awakening will be followed by a moral slumber, since, in the uncomprehended scheme of things, slumber seems necessary; and you needn’t pull so long a face, Mr. Mayrant, because the slumber will be followed by another moral awakening.  The alcoholic society girl you don’t like will very probably give birth to a water-drinking daughter—­who in her turn may produce a bibulous progeny:  how often must I tell you that nothing is final?”

John Mayrant gave the horses a somewhat vicious lash after these last words of mine; and, as he made no retort to them, we journeyed some little distance in silence through the mild, enchanting light of the sun.  My deliberate allusion to alcoholic girls had made plain what I had begun to suspect.  I could now discern that his cloak of gayety had fallen from him, leaving bare the same harassed spirit, the same restless mood, which had been his upon the last occasion when we had talked at length together upon some of the present social and political phases of our republic—­ that day of the New Bridge and the advent of Hortense.  Only, upon that day, he had by his manner in some subtle fashion conveyed to me a greater security in my discretion than I felt him now to entertain.  His many observations about the Replacers, with always the significant and conspicuous omission of Hortense, proved more and more, as I thought it over, that his state was unsteady.  Even now, he did not long endure silence between us; yet the eagerness which he threw into our discussions did not, it seemed to me, so much proceed from present interest in their subjects (though interest there was at times) as from anxiety lest one particular subject, ever present with him, should creep in unawares.  So much I, at any rate, concluded, and bided my time for the creeping in unawares, content meanwhile to parry some of the reproaches which he now and again cast at me with an earnestness real or feigned.

We had made now considerable progress, and were come to a space of sand and cabins and intersecting railroad tracks, where freight cars and locomotives stood, and negroes of all shapes, but of one lowering and ragged appearance, lounged and stared.

“There used to be a murder here about once a day,” said John, “before the dispensary system.  Now, it is about once a week.”

“That law is of benefit, then?” I inquired.