“What’s the matter?” queried the conductor, who was collecting somebody’s fare.

“The matther, is it? matther enough! what’s this nasty nagur doin’ here?  Put him out, can’t ye?”

The conductor took no notice.

“Conductor!” spoke up a well-dressed man, with the air and manner of a gentleman, “what does that card say?”

The conductor looked at the card indicated, upon which was printed “Colored people not allowed in this car,” legible enough to require less study than he saw fit to give it.  “Well!” he said.

“Well,” was the answer,—­“your duty is plain.  Put that fellow out.”

The conductor hesitated,—­looked round the car.  Nobody spoke.

“I’m sorry, my man!  I hoped there would be no objection when I let you in; but our orders are strict, and, as the passengers ain’t willing, you’ll have to get off,”—­jerking angrily at the bell.

As the car slackened speed, a young officer, whom nobody noticed, got on.

There was a moment’s pause as the black man gathered up his crutches, and raised himself painfully.  “Stop!” cried a thrilling and passionate voice,—­“stand still!  Of what stuff are you made to sit here and see a man, mangled and maimed in your cause and for your defence, insulted and outraged at the bidding of a drunken boor and a cowardly traitor?” The voice, the beautiful face, the intensity burning through both, electrified every soul to which she appealed.  Hands were stretched out to draw back the crippled soldier; eyes that a moment before were turned away looked kindly at him; a Babel of voices broke out, “No, no,” “let him stay,” “it’s a shame,” “let him alone, conductor,” “we ain’t so bad as that,” with more of the same kind; those who chose not to join in the chorus discreetly held their peace, and made no attempt to sing out of time and tune.

The car started again.  The gentleman, furious at the turn of the tide, cried out, “Ho, ho! here’s a pretty preacher of the gospel of equality! why, ladies and gentlemen, this high-flyer, who presumes to lecture us, is nothing but a”—­

The sentence was cut short in mid-career, the insolent sneer dashed out of his face,—­face and form prone on the floor of the car,—­while over him bent and blazed the young officer, whose entrance, a little while before, nobody had heeded.

Spurning the prostrate body at his feet, he turned to Francesca, for it was she, and stretched out his hand,—­his left hand,—­his only one.  It was time; all the heat, and passion, and color, had died out, and she stood there shivering, a look of suffering in her face.

“Miss Ercildoune! you are ill,—­you need the air,—­allow me!” drawing her hand through his arm, and taking her out with infinite deference and care.

“Thank you! a moment’s faintness,—­it is over now,” as they reached the sidewalk.

“No, no, you are too ill to walk,—­let me get you a carriage.”