"Dat's what I tells 'em, sah."

"Of course," said Ben, good-humouredly. "The voice of the people is the voice of God-rats or no rats-if you know how to count."

As old Aleck staggered away, the sudden crash of a volley of musketry echoed in the distance.

"What's that?" asked Ben, listening intently. The sound was unmistakable to a soldier's ear-that volley from a hundred rifles at a single word of command. It was followed by a shot on a hill in the distance, and then by a faint echo, farther still. Ben listened a few moments and turned into the lawn of the hotel. The music suddenly stopped, the tramp of feet echoed on the porch, a woman screamed, and from the rear of the house came

the cry:

"Fire! Fire!"

Almost at the same moment an immense sheet of flame shot skyward from the big barn.

"My God!" groaned Ben. "Jake's in jail, to-night, and they've set the barn on fire. It's worth more than the house."

The crowd rushed down the hill to the blazing building, Marion's fleet figure in its flying white dress leading the crowd.

The lowing of the cows and the wild neighing of the horses rang above the roar of the flames.

Before Ben could reach the spot Marion had opened every stall. Two cows leaped out to safety, but not a horse would move from its stall, and each moment wilder and more pitiful grew their death-cries.

Marion rushed to Ben, her eyes dilated, her face as white as the dress she wore.

"Oh, Ben, Queen won't come out! What shall I do?" "You can do nothing, child. A horse won't come out of a burning stable unless he's blindfolded. They'll all be burned to death."

"Oh! no!" the girl cried in agony.

"They'd trample you to death if you tried to get them out. It can't be helped. It's too late."

As Ben looked back at the gathering crowd, Marion suddenly snatched a horse-blanket, lying at the door, ran with the speed of a deer to the pond, plunged in, sprang out, and sped back to the open door of Queen's stall, through which her shrill cry could be heard above the others.

As the girl ran toward the burning building, her thin white dress clinging close to her exquisite form, she looked like the marble figure of a sylph by the hand of some great master into which God had suddenly breathed the breath of life.

As they saw her purpose, a cry of horror rose from the crowd, her mother's scream loud above the rest.

Ben rushed to catch her, shouting:

"Marion! Marion! She'll trample you to death!" He was too late. She leaped into the stall. The crowd held their breath. There was a moment of awful

suspense, and the mare sprang through the open door with the little white figure clinging to her mane and holding the blanket over her head.

A cheer rang above the roar of the flames. The girl

did not loose her hold until her beautiful pet was led to a place of safety, while she clung to her neck and laughed and cried for joy. First her mother, then Margaret, Mrs. Cameron, and Elsie took her in their arms.

As Ben approached the group, Elsie whispered to him: "Kiss her!"

Ben took her hand, his eyes full of unshed tears, and said:

"The bravest deed a woman ever did-you're a heroine, Marion!"

Before she knew it, he stooped and kissed her.

She was very still for a moment, smiled, trembled from head to foot, blushed scarlet, took her mother by the hand, and without a word hurried to the house.

Poor Becky was whining among the excited crowd and sought in vain for Marion. At last she got Margaret's attention, caught her dress in her teeth and led her to a corner of the lot, where she had laid side by side her puppies, smothered to death. She stood and looked at them with her tail drooping, the picture of despair. Margaret burst into tears and called Ben.

He bent and put his arm around the setter's neck and stroked her head with his hand. Looking up at his sister, he said:

"Don't tell Marion of this. She can't stand any more to-night.'

The crowd had all dispersed, and the flames had died down for want of fuel. The odour of roasting flesh, pungent and acrid, still lingered a sharp reminder of the tragedy.

Ben stood on the back porch, talking in low tones to his father.

"Will you join us now, sir? We need the name and influence of men of your standing."

"My boy, two wrongs never make a right. It's better to endure awhile. The sober common sense of the Nation will yet save us. We must appeal to it." "Eight more fires were seen from town to-night." "You only guess their origin."

"I know their origin. It was done by the League at a signal as a celebration of the election and a threat of terror to the county. One of our men concealed a faithful negro under the floor of the school-house and heard the plot hatched. We expected it a month ago—but hoped they had given it up."

"Even so, my boy, a secret society such as you have planned means a conspiracy that may bring exile or death. I hate lawlessness and disorder. We have had enough of it. Your clan means ultimately martial law. At least we will get rid of these soldiers by this election. They have done their worst to me, but we may save others by patience."

"It's the only way, sir. The next step will be a black hand on a white woman's throat!"

The doctor frowned. "Let us hope for the best. Your clan is the last act of desperation."

"But if everything else fail, and this creeping horror becomes a fact-then what?"

"My boy, we will pray that God may never let us live to see the day!"

A

CHAPTER VIII

THE RIOT IN THE MASTER'S HALL

LARMED at the possible growth of the secret clan

into which Ben had urged him to enter, Dr. Cameron determined to press for relief from oppression by an open appeal to the conscience of the Nation.

He called a meeting of conservative leaders in a Taxpayers' Convention at Columbia. His position as a leader had been made supreme by the indignities he had suffered, and he felt sure of his ability to accomplish results. Every county in the state was represented by its best men in this gathering at the Capital.

The day he undertook to present his memorial to the Legislature was one he never forgot. The streets were crowded with negroes who had come to town to hear Lynch, the Lieutenant-Governor, speak in a mass-meeting. Negro policemen swung their clubs in his face as he pressed through the insolent throng up the street to the stately marble Capitol. At the door a black, greasy trooper stopped him to parley. Every decently dressed white man was regarded a spy.

As he passed inside the doors of the House of Representatives, the rush of foul air staggered him. The reek of vile cigars and stale whiskey, mingled with the odour of