For a moment the Major glared at him; then, restrained by his inherited reverence for the pulpit, he yielded the point with the soothing acknowledgment that he was always “willing to make due allowance for ministers of the gospel.” “My dear sir,” gasped Mr. Blake, as his jaw dropped. His face showed plainly that so professional an allowance was exactly what he did not take to be his due; but he let sleeping dangers lie, and it was not until a fortnight later, when he rode out with a copy of the _Charleston Mercury_ and the news of the secession of South Carolina, that he found the daring to begin a direct approach. It was a cold, bright evening in December, and the Major unfolded the paper and read it by the firelight, which glimmered redly on the frosted window panes. When he had finished, he looked over the fluttering sheet into the pale face of the rector, and waited breathlessly for the first decisive words. “May she depart in peace,” said the minister, in a low voice. The old gentleman drew a long breath, and, in the cheerful glow, the other, looking at him, saw his weak red eyes fill with tears. Then he took out his handkerchief, shook it from its folds, and loudly blew his nose. “It was the Union our fathers made, Mr. Blake,” he said. “And the Union you fought for, Major,” returned the rector. “In two wars, sir,” he glanced down at his arm as if he half expected to see a wound, “and I shall never fight for another,” he added with a sigh. “My fighting days are over.” They were both silent, and the logs merrily crackled on the great brass andirons, while the flames went singing up the chimney. A glass of Burgundy was at the rector's hand, and he lifted it from the silver tray and sipped it as he waited. At last the old man spoke, bending forward from his station upon the hearth-rug. “You haven't seen Peyton Ambler, I reckon?” “I passed him coming out of town and he was trembling like a leaf,” replied the rector. “He looks badly, by the way. I must remember to tell the doctor he needs building up.” “He didn't speak about this, eh?” “About South Carolina? Oh, yes, he spoke, sir. It happened that Jack Powell came up with him when I did--the boy was cheering with all his might, and I heard him ask the Governor if he questioned the right of the state to secede?” “And Peyton said, sir?” The Major leaned eagerly toward him. “He said,” pursued the rector, laughing softly. “'God forbid, my boy, that I should question the right of any man or any country to pursue folly.'” “Folly!” cried the Major, sharply, firing at the first sign of opposition. “It was a brave deed, sir, a brave deed--and I--yes, I envy the honour for Virginia. And as for Peyton Ambler, it is my belief that it is he who has sapped the courage of the state. Why, my honest opinion is that there are not fifty men in Virginia with the spirit to secede--and they are women.” The rector laughed and tapped his wine-glass.