Nevertheless, when the stage with its half-spent lamps still burning dimly against the morning light swept round the curve and rolled heavily up to the rude shanty which served as coach-office, he became watchful.  A single yawning individual in its doorway received a few letters and parcels, but Clarence was evidently the only waiting passenger.  Any hope that he might have entertained that his mysterious predecessor would emerge from some seclusion at that moment was disappointed.  As he entered the coach he made a rapid survey of his fellow-travelers, but satisfied himself that the stranger was not among them.  They were mainly small traders or farmers, a miner or two, and apparently a Spanish-American of better degree and personality.  Possibly the circumstance that men of this class usually preferred to travel on horseback and were rarely seen in public conveyances attracted his attention, and their eyes met more than once in mutual curiosity.  Presently Clarence addressed a remark to the stranger in Spanish; he replied fluently and courteously, but at the next stopping-place he asked a question of the expressman in an unmistakable Missouri accent.  Clarence’s curiosity was satisfied; he was evidently one of those early American settlers who had been so long domiciled in Southern California as to adopt the speech as well as the habiliments of the Spaniard.

The conversation fell upon the political news of the previous night, or rather seemed to be lazily continued from some previous, more excited discussion, in which one of the contestants—­a red-bearded miner—­had subsided into an occasional growl of surly dissent.  It struck Clarence that the Missourian had been an amused auditor and even, judging from a twinkle in his eye, a mischievous instigator of the controversy.  He was not surprised, therefore, when the man turned to him with a certain courtesy and said,—­

“And what, sir, is the political feeling in your district?”

But Clarence was in no mood to be drawn out, and replied, almost curtly, that as he had come only from San Francisco, they were probably as well informed on that subject as himself.  A quick and searching glance from the stranger’s eye made him regret his answer, but in the silence that ensued the red-bearded miner, evidently still rankling at heart, saw his opportunity.  Slapping his huge hands on his knees, and leaning far forward until he seemed to plunge his flaming beard, like a firebrand, into the controversy, he said grimly,—­

“Well, I kin tell you, gen’l’men, this.  It ain’t goin’ to be no matter wot’s the political feeling here or thar—­it ain’t goin’ to be no matter wot’s the State’s rights and wot’s Fed’ral rights—­it ain’t goin’ to be no question whether the gov’ment’s got the right to relieve its own soldiers that those Secesh is besieging in Fort Sumter or whether they haven’t—­but the first gun that’s fired at the flag blows the chains off every d—­n nigger south of Mason and Dixon’s line!  You hear me!  I’m shoutin’!  And whether you call yourselves ‘Secesh’ or ‘Union’ or ‘Copperhead’ or ‘Peace men,’ you’ve got to face it!”