For more than a month I had been on the trail of the Saxon, the westward trail on which he set his feet more than a hundred years ago, when he cut the apron-strings of Mother England, turned his back on her, and, without knowing it, started back toward her the other way round the world, to clasp hands, perhaps, again across the Far East. Where he started, I started, too, from the top of the Cumberland over which he first saw the Star of Empire beckoning westward only. I went through a black tunnel straight under the trail his moccasined feet wore over Cumberland Gap, and stopped, for a moment, in a sleeper on the spot where he pitched his sunset camp for the night; and the blood of his footprints still was there. "This is a hell of a town," said the conductor cheerfully. I waited for an explanation. It came. "Why, I went to a nigger-minstrel show here the other night. A mountaineer in the gallery shot a nigger and a white man dead in the aisle, but the band struck up 'Dixie,' and the show never stopped. But one man left the house and that was Bones. They found him at the hotel, but he refused to go back. 'I can't be funny in that place,' he said." Now the curious thing is that each one of those three, the slayer and the slain--the Saxon through the arrogance of race, the African through the imitative faculty that has given him something of that same arrogance toward the people of other lands--felt himself the superior of any Oriental with a yellow skin. And now when I think of the exquisite courtesy and ceremony and gentle politeness in this land, I smile; then I think of the bearing of the man toward the woman of this land, and the bearing of the man--even the mountaineer--toward the woman in our own land, and the place the woman holds in each--and the smile passes.