This was clearly visible, though the sun’s light had entirely faded; for the cabin door, near the outside of which they stood, was wide open, and a fire of fat pine was filling the broad chimney’s throat with a sheet of flame. “Old man Payne” was a small man, with a large head, quick, deep-set gray eyes, under a broad brow which was crowned with snowy hair. He it was who had counselled discretion, moderation and honorable dealing at the Club meeting at which Watson Atwood was initiated into the mysteries of modern southern politics. A descendant of an honored southern family, he yet seemed from infancy to have inherited many notions which were antagonistic to the environments of his childhood, and which several seasons spent in New England, in the early home of his mother, served to strengthen and intensify. His wife, always fully Southern in ideas and sympathies, had reared their children so, aided by their surroundings, while he had very quietly cherished his own sentiments. A chair was brought, and he seated himself without speaking, sighed heavily, folded his small nervous hands, and gazed away into the darkness; and as volley followed volley, he shuddered, and wept. “Good God,” said he at length, “I had hoped this kind of thing was over! Jesse, what do you know about this?” “Nothing,” was the prompt reply. “I know nothing; at least, I’ve just _heard_ that there’s a fuss between the Militia company and the white folks. Do you know who’s in it, Mr. Payne. Who begun it, I mean?” “I only know they say the officers would not go to court, but just fortified themselves in the armory, and defied the law, and said they were going to fight. Joe Morey says they’ve been making awful threats lately, and so the Rifle clubs were called out to sustain General Baker, who undertook to conduct the suit for Robert Baker and Gaston.” “Defied the law? How’s that, Mr. Payne?” “I don’t know Jesse, but that is what Joe Morey said.” “Is that all you know about it?” “Yes.” “Has any body gone over from here, from the Island, I mean?” “Yes, some on both sides, I guess.” “And what is the intentions of the white folks?” “I do not know, except that they intend to get some security that the negroes shall give up their guns, and stop drilling. They say they do not feel secure in their lives and property while the Militia is drilling with arms in their hands.” “What has the colored people ever done? And why don’t they treat them so well that they won’t be afraid of them? They’re State Militia.” “I know, I know that Jesse; but our boys will listen to nothing. I’m afraid of the consequences, and do not want another war.” “A good many of ’em is pretty old “boys,”—old Confederate soldiers,” said Roome, “and there can’t be much that is worse than this, judging by the guns we hear. How do you know there’s any gone?” “They went by my store, and I tried to persuade them not to go.” “Who was they?” “I can not give names, Jesse.” “Did Hankins go, Mr. Payne?”