Part 43 (1/2)

She raised her lips to his for a kiss and answered:

”Because a soldier's business is to die for his country.”

As Ben led her back into the ballroom and surrendered her to a friend for a dance, the first gun pealed its note of victory from the square in the celebration of the triumph of the African slave over his white master.

Ben strolled out in the street to hear the news.

The Const.i.tution had been ratified by an enormous majority, and a Legislature elected composed of 101 negroes and 23 white men. Silas Lynch had been elected Lieutenant-Governor, a negro Secretary of State, a negro Treasurer, and a negro Justice of the Supreme Court.

When Bizzel, the wizzen-faced agent of the Freedman's Bureau, made this announcement from the courthouse steps, pandemonium broke lose. An incessant rattle of musketry began in which ball cartridges were used, the missiles whistling over the town in every direction. Yet within half an hour the square was deserted and a strange quiet followed the storm.

Old Aleck staggered by the hotel, his drunkenness having reached the religious stage.

”Behold, a curiosity, gentlemen,” cried Ben to a group of boys who had gathered, ”a voter is come among us--in fact, he is the people, the king, our representative elect, the Honourable Alexander Lenoir, of the county of Ulster!”

”Gemmens, de Lawd's bin good ter me,” said Aleck, weeping copiously.

”They say the rat labels were in a majority in this precinct--how was that?” asked Ben.

”Yessah--dat what de scornful say--dem dat sets in de seat o' de scornful, but de Lawd er Hosts He fetch 'em low. Mistah Bissel de Buro man count all dem rat votes right, sah--dey couldn't fool him--he know what dey mean--he count 'em all for me an' de ratification.”

”Sure-pop!” said Ben; ”if you can't ratify with a rat, I'd like to know why?”

”Dat's what I tells 'em, sah.”

”Of course,” said Ben good-humouredly. ”The voice of the people is the voice of G.o.d--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 G.o.d!” 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.