There arose an uproar of excited voices.  “Yes, yes, it’s true!” shouted Mocket.  “The stage brought it.  He was challenged by Aaron Burr.  They met at a place named Weehawken.  Burr’s first shot ended it.—­Sandy’ll trouble us no more!”

“It’s rumour—­”

“No, no, it’s gospel truth!  There’s a messenger from the President, and letters from all quarters.  He’s dead, and Burr’s in hiding!  Gad!  We’ll have a rouse at the Eagle to-night!  Blue lights for Assumption and Funding and the Sedition Bill and Taxes and Standing Armies and the British Alliance—­

     “Oh, Alexander, King of Macedon,
     Where is your namesake, Andy Hamilton?

“In a hotter place, I hope, than Saint Kitts!”

“Hush!” said Rand.  “Don’t be ranting like a Mohawk!  When a man’s dead, it’s time to let him rest.”

He turned to the excited throng, and as he did so, he was aware that Jacqueline was standing white and frozen, and that Unity was trying to take her hand.  He felt for her an infinite tenderness, and he promised himself to give Tom Mocket an old-time rating for at least one ill-advised expression.  Such wedding gifts were not for Jacqueline.  But as for the news—­Rand felt his cheek grow hot and his eyes glow.  In all the history of the country this was the decade in which political animosity, pure and simple, went its greatest length.  Each party thought of the struggle as a battlefield; the Federalist strength was already broken, and now if the leader was down, it was not in fighting and Republican nature to restrain the wild cheer for the rout that must follow.  Rand was a fighter too, and a captain of fighters, and the hundred whirling thoughts, the hundred chances, the sense of victory, and the savage joy in a foe’s defeat—­all the feeling that swelled his heart left him unabashed.  But he thought of Jacqueline, and he tried to choose his words.  There would be now, he knew, no wedding feast at Mrs. Selden’s.  Randolphs, Carrs, Coles, Carters, Dabneys, Gordons, Meriwethers, and Minors—­all would wish to hurry away.  Plantation, office, or tavern, there would be letters waiting, journals to read, men to meet, committees, clamour, and debate.  Of the ruder sort who had crowded to the church, many were already on the point of departure, mounting their horses, preparing for a race to the nearest tavern and newspaper.  “Gentlemen,” exclaimed Rand, “if it’s true news—­if we have indeed to deplore General Hamilton’s death—­”

“‘Deplore!’” cried Mocket.

“‘Deplore!’” echoed bluntly a Republican of prominence.  “Don’t let’s be hypocrites, Mr. Rand.  We’ll leave the Federalists to ’deplore’—­”

“Oh, I’ll deplore him with pleasure!” cried a third.  “It won’t hurt to drop a tear—­but for all that it’s the greatest news since 1800!”

“Hip, hip, hurrah!”

“Weehawken! where’s Weehawken?  What’s Burr in hiding for?  Can’t a gentleman fight a duel?  Let him come down here, and we’ll give him a triumph!”