“A blackbird feather,” exclaimed Rand, turning it over in his hand.  “That would mean—­that would mean—­’It is the fall of the leaf.  The bird has flown south.  Follow all the migratory tribe! follow while the air is yet open to you, or stay behind with the sick and the old and the faint of heart and the fighters against instinct!  Winter comes.  It is time to make haste.’” He laid the feather down with a smile.  “That’s Adam.  Well, Adam, we will see how swift the Bienville can fly!  I may yet be first at New Orleans.  Wilkinson and I to welcome Burr and all the motley in his river-boats with a salvo from the city already ours.  Ha! that’s a silvery dream, Tom, and an eagle’s pinion for Adam’s blackbird quill!” He laughed and took up his hat.  “Let’s down the street first, and then you may find the man from the Bienville.  There’s a long day’s work before us, and to-night”—­He drew a quick breath.  “To-night I have a task that is not slight.  Come away!  It’s striking twelve.”

The two closed the office and went out into the sunny street.  “Where are all the people?” exclaimed Mocket.  “It’s as still as Sunday.”

A boy at a shop door, hearing the remark, raised a piping voice.  “Everybody’s down at the Eagle and the post-office, sir.  I heard them say there’s big news.  Maybe the President’s dead!”

The distance to the Eagle was but short.  Rand walked so rapidly that his companion had difficulty to keep beside him, and walked in silence, cutting short every attempt of Tom’s to speak.  They came within sight of the tavern.  The long lower porch seemed crowded, the street in front filled with people.  There were horsemen, a coach and a chaise or two, a rapid shifting of brown, green, blue, and plum-coloured coats, a gleam here and there of a woman’s dress.  A bugle sounded, and there issued from Governor Street first a roll of drums and a shouted order, and then a company in blue and white with tall, nodding plumes.

“There are the Blues!” cried Tom.  “My land!  What is the fuss about?”

They were now upon the edge of the throng, which suddenly fell from excited talking to a breathless attention.  A tall man of commanding presence and ringing voice had mounted a chair, set at the top of the steps to the Eagle porch, and unfolded a paper.  Rand touched upon the shoulder the man before him.  “Mr. Ritchie, I have just come in from the country, and have heard nothing.  What, sir, is the matter?”

“Treason, sir!” answered the editor of the Enquirer.  “Treason.  An attempt to disrupt the Republic!  A blow in the face of Washington and Henry and Franklin, of the sacred dead and the patriot living!  The lie direct to the Constitution!  Apollyon stretching himself, sir; but, by gad!  Apollyon foiled!  Listen, and you will hear.  Foushee’s reading the Proclamation for the second time.”

“Ah,” said Rand, in a curious voice.  “A Proclamation.  From—­”

“From the President.  Evil hasn’t prospered, and though we can’t hang Apollyon, we can hang Aaron Burr.  Listen now.”