It was Nicholas Temple.  There was something awe-impelling in the tall, slim, boyish figure that towered above the crowd, in the finely wrought, passionate face, in the voice charged with such an anger as is given to few men.

“What has North Carolina done for Franklin?” he cried.  “Protected her?  No.  Repudiated her?  Yes.  You gave her to the Confederacy for a war debt, and the Confederacy flung her back.  You shook yourselves free from Carolina’s tyranny, and traitors betrayed you again.  And now they have betrayed your leader.  Will you avenge him, or will you sit down like cowards while they hang him for treason?”

His voice was drowned, but he stood immovable with arms folded until there was silence again.

“Will you rescue him?” he cried, and the roar rose again.  “Will you avenge him?  By to-morrow we shall have two thousand here.  Invade North Carolina, humble her, bring her to her knees, and avenge John Sevier!”

Pandemonium reigned.  Hats were flung in the air, rifles fired, shouts and curses rose and blended into one terrifying note.  Gradually, in the midst of this mad uproar, the crowd became aware that another man was standing upon the stump from which Nicholas Temple had leaped.  “Cozby!” some one yelled, “Cozby!” The cry was taken up.  “Huzzay for Cozby!  He’ll lead us into Caroliny.”  He was the huge, swarthy man I had seen riding hard with Nick that morning.  A sculptor might have chosen his face and frame for a type of the iron-handed leader of pioneers.  Will was supreme in the great features,—­inflexible, indomitable will.  His hunting shirt was open across his great chest, his black hair fell to his shoulders, and he stood with a compelling hand raised for silence.  And when he spoke, slowly, resonantly, men fell back before his words.

“I admire Mr. Temple’s courage, and above all his loyalty to our beloved General,” said Major Cozby.  “But Mr. Temple is young, and the heated counsels of youth must not prevail.  My friends, in order to save Jack Sevier we must be moderate.”

His voice, strong as it was, was lost.  “To hell with moderation!” they shouted.  “Down with North Carolina!  We’ll fight her!”

He got silence again by the magnetic strength he had in him.

“Very good,” he said, “but get your General first.  If we lead you across the mountains now, his blood will be upon your heads.  No man is a better friend to Jack Sevier than I. Leave his rescue to me, and I will get him for you.”  He paused, and they were stilled perforce.  “I will get him for you,” he repeated slowly, “or North Carolina will pay for the burial of James Cozby.”

There was an instant when they might have swung either way.

“How will ye do it?” came in a thin, piping voice from somewhere near the stump.  It may have been this that turned their minds.  Others took up the question, “How will ye do it, Major Cozby?”

“I don’t know,” cried the Major, “I don’t know.  And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.  But I will get Nollichucky Jack if I have to burn Morganton and rake the General out of the cinders!”