sounded a hundred-fold more voluminous and heart-rending. Then the bloody form of Dan Wright appeared with hands uplifted, eyes staring at his murderers, the blood streaming from a hundred wounds. The Mayor had seen hard service in war, was one of the immortal few who, under the leadership of Pickett, made that gallant but futile charge at Gettysburg, to be driven back for a third time, crushed, mangled and defeated. He doubtless assisted in digging the trenches into which those ghastly remnants that told of the cannon's awful work were thrown. That was war, and such sights had never so affected the veteran as the vision now before him. "Avaunt! avaunt! Quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation In those eyes that thou dost glare with!" The Mayor started up, opened his eyes. Uncle Guy stood before him. "I jes' taut I'd drap in, Kurnel, but didn't speck ter fin' yer sleep," said he, wincing under the Mayor's abstracted gaze. "Oh, I don' want nut'n; don' make er scratch on dat paper. I ain't beggin'," he exclaimed, as the Mayor, recovering, reached for his pen. "That's so Guy; you needn't be a beggar as long as the white people own a crust," he answered, settling back in his chair again. "Well, what are Negroes saying about the uprising, Guy?" The old man shrugged his shoulders, and shook his index finger at the Mayor. "Le' me tell yo', Kurnel, you na Wilmin'ton rich bocra, dun throw yo' number an' los'; hear me? Ef enybody gone tell me dat dese people I bin raise wid, who bin called de bes' bocra in de worl' would go an' kick up all dis ere devil, I'd er tole um No." The old man straightened up, pointed skyward. "Lowd deliver yunna bocra when yer call befo' de bar. Dese niggers ain't su'prise at po' white trash; dey do enyting. But yunna fus class white fo'ks--" "Well, Guy," broke in the Mayor, "it was hard for us to resort to such, but it was in self-defense." "Self-defense! self-defense!" repeated the old man. "When po' nigger han bin tie, an' yunna bocra got eberyt'ing--gun, cannon an' all de am-nition, an' beside dat, de town full wid strange trash frum all ober de country to crush dem? Some er dese men I sees shootin' an' killin', dars men an' umen livin' er my race dat nussed an' tuk keer er dem w'en dey bin little. God er mighty gwinter pay yunna well fer yer work, Kurnel, an' de gost er dem po' murdered creeters gwine ter haunt yo' in yer sleep. God don' lub ugly, an' yunna can't prosper." The old man concluded with a low bow, strode out, and left the Mayor alone with his thoughts. CHAPTER XIX. Teck Pervis, the Leader.