“Indeed!  What is it?”

“I am, first of all, a native of the State of South Carolina!”

A murmur of applause and approval ran round the balcony.  Captain Pinckney smiled and exchanged glances with Mrs. Brant, but the stranger quietly returned to the central table beside Colonel Starbottle.  “I am not only an unexpected delegate to this august assembly, gentlemen,” he began gravely, “but I am the bearer of perhaps equally unexpected news.  By my position in the Southern district I am in possession of dispatches received only this morning by pony express.  Fort Sumter has been besieged.  The United States flag, carrying relief to the beleaguered garrison, has been fired upon by the State of South Carolina.”

A burst of almost hysteric applause and enthusiasm broke from the assembly, and made the dim, vault-like passages and corridors of the casa ring.  Cheer after cheer went up to the veiled gallery and the misty sky beyond.  Men mounted on the tables and waved their hands frantically, and in the midst of this bewildering turbulence of sound and motion Clarence saw his wife mounted on a chair, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes, waving her handkerchief like an inspired priestess.  Only the stranger, still standing beside Colonel Starbottle, remained unmoved and impassive.  Then, with an imperative gesture, he demanded a sudden silence.

“Convincing and unanimous as this demonstration is, gentlemen,” he began quietly, “it is my duty, nevertheless, to ask you if you have seriously considered the meaning of the news I have brought.  It is my duty to tell you that it means civil war.  It means the clash of arms between two sections of a mighty country; it means the disruption of friends, the breaking of family ties, the separation of fathers and sons, of brothers and sisters—­even, perhaps, to the disseverment of husband and wife!”

“It means the sovereignty of the South—­and the breaking of a covenant with lowborn traders and abolitionists,” said Captain Pinckney.

“If there are any gentlemen present,” continued the stranger, without heeding the interruption, “who have pledged this State to the support of the South in this emergency, or to the establishment of a Pacific republic in aid and sympathy with it, whose names are on this paper”—­he lifted a sheet of paper lying before Colonel Starbottle—­“but who now feel that the gravity of the news demands a more serious consideration of the purpose, they are at liberty to withdraw from the meeting, giving their honor, as Southern gentlemen, to keep the secret intact.”

“Not if I know it,” interrupted a stalwart Kentuckian, as he rose to his feet and strode down the steps to the patio.  “For,” he added, placing his back against the gateway, “I’ll shoot the first coward that backs out now.”

A roar of laughter and approval followed, but was silenced again by the quiet, unimpassioned voice of the stranger.  “If, on the other hand,” he went on calmly, “you all feel that this news is the fitting culmination and consecration of the hopes, wishes, and plans of this meeting, you will assert it again, over your own signatures, to Colonel Starbottle at this table.”