love, whose passions, once aroused, are as the fury of the tiger-they have set this thing to rule over the Southern people

The doctor sprang to his feet, his face livid, his eyes blazing with emotion. "Merciful God-it surpasses

human belief!"

He sank exhausted in his chair, and, extending his hand in an eloquent gesture, continued:

'Surely, surely, sir, the people of the North are not mad? We can yet appeal to the conscience and the brain of our brethren of a common race?"

Stoneman was silent as if stunned. Deep down in his strange soul he was drunk with the joy of a triumphant vengeance he had carried locked in the depths of his being, yet the intensity of this man's suffering for a people's cause surprised and distressed him as all individual pain hurt him.

Dr. Cameron rose, stung by his silence, and the consciousness of the hostility with which Stoneman had wrapped himself.

"Pardon my apparent rudeness, Doctor," he said, at length, extending his hand. "The violence of your feeling stunned me for the moment. I'm obliged to you for speaking. I like a plain-spoken man. I am sorry to learn of the stupidity of the former military commandant in this town

"My personal wrongs, sir," the doctor broke in, "are nothing!"

"I am sorry, too, about these individual cases of suffering. They are the necessary incidents of a great upheaval.

But may it not all come out right in the end? After the Dark Ages, day broke at last. We have the printing press, railroad and telegraph-a revolution in human affairs. We may do in years what it took ages to do in the past. May not the Black man speedily emerge? Who knows? An appeal to the North will be a waste of breath. This experiment is going to be made. It is written in the book of Fate. But I like you. Come to see me again."

Dr. Cameron left with a heavy heart. He had grown a great hope in this long-wished-for appeal to Stoneman. It had come to his ears that the old man, who had dwelt as one dead in their village, was a power.

It was ten o'clock before the doctor walked slowly back to the hotel. As he passed the armory of the black militia, they were still drilling under the command of Gus. The windows were open, through which came the steady tramp of heavy feet and the cry of "Hep! Hep! Hep!" from the Captain's thick cracked lips. The full-dress officer's uniform, with its gold epaulets, yellow stripes, and glistening sword, only accentuated the coarse bestiality of Gus. His huge jaws seemed to hide completely the gold braid on his collar.

The doctor watched, with a shudder, his black bloated face covered with perspiration and the huge hand gripping his sword.

They suddenly halted in double ranks and Gus yelled: "Odah, arms!"

The butts of their rifles crashed to the floor with precision, and they were allowed to break ranks for a brief rest.

They sang "John Brown's Body," and as its echoes died away a big negro swung his rifle in a circle over his head, shouting:

"Here's your regulator for white trash! En dey's nine hundred ob 'em in dis county!"

"Yas, Lawd!" howled another.

"We got 'em down now en we keep 'em dar, chile!" bawled another.

The doctor passed on slowly to the hotel. The night was dark, the streets were without lights under their present rulers, and the stars were hidden with swift-flying clouds which threatened a storm. As he passed under the boughs of an oak in front of his house, a voice above him whispered:

"A message for you, sir."

Had the wings of a spirit suddenly brushed his cheek, he would not have been more startled.

"Who are you?" he asked, with a slight tremor. "A Night Hawk of the Invisible Empire, with a message from the Grand Dragon of the Realm," was the low answer, as he thrust a note in the doctor's hand. will wait for your answer."

"I

The doctor fumbled to his office on the corner of the lawn, struck a match, and read:

"A great Scotch-Irish leader of the South from Memphis is here to-night and wishes to see you. If you will meet General Forrest, I will bring him to the hotel in fifteen minutes. Burn this. Ben."

The doctor walked quickly back to the spot where he had heard the voice, and said:

"I'll see him with pleasure."

The invisible messenger wheeled his horse, and in a moment the echo of his muffled hoofs had died away in the distance.

D

CHAPTER XI

THE BEAT OF A SPARROW'S WING

R. CAMERON'S appeal had left the old Commoner unshaken in his idea. There could be

but one side to any question with such a man, and that was his side. He would stand by his own men too. He believed in his own forces. The bayonet was essential to his revolutionary programme-hence the hand which held it could do no wrong. Wrongs were accidents which might occur under any system.

Yet in no way did he display the strange contradictions of his character so plainly as in his inability to hate the individual who stood for the idea he was fighting with maniac fury. He liked Dr. Cameron instantly, though he had come to do a crime that would send him into beggared exile.

Individual suffering he could not endure. In this the doctor's appeal had startling results.

He sent for Mrs. Lenoir and Marion.

"I understand, Madam," he said, gravely, "that your house and farm are to be sold for taxes?”

"Yes, sir; we've given it up this time. Nothing can be done," was the hopeless answer.

"Would you consider an offer of twenty dollars an acre?"