Tuesday, April 6, 1875, came, bright and cloudless, as though dark desires and hellish passions were not swaying the human breast, and danger threatening the lives of those who reveled in the clear sunlight of the present, buoyant and hopeful for the future. Passing the day in talking with the principal Mollies interested in the bridge enterprise, the Secretary started, at about eight in the evening, accompanied by Pat Butler—who still seemed determined to wait and learn what the outsiders had to say about the thing before he committed himself and his division to the scheme—for the place on the verge of the mountain. Butler was more than half inclined, the Shenandoah Secretary was pleased to see, to let the outsiders have the plot their own way and allow the same parties to perform the work of destruction by themselves. McAndrew, who soon joined Butler and McKenna, was also averse to receiving any assistance from those not within the order. Still all were agreed to attend the preliminary meeting, hence they gathered, under the starlight, at Number Three Hill. McKenna was not afraid of the outside citizens executing the job, unaided, after having fully disclosed their ideas to the Mollies, and was equally certain that the brotherhood would refuse to do it under similar circumstances, hence his obvious labor was to foment division, and make its performance impossible for either party. This he proceeded to do, and found it no easy task. Strong words had to be employed with the Mollies, most of whom were greatly in favor of the undertaking, to make them willing to abandon it. His principal reliance he found to be the jealousy of the society regarding the interference of all other combinations, and its disinclination to join in an overt act with people not members. Using this as his _piece de resistance_, in the commencement, he added to it, from time to time, such suggestive incidents as came to mind. “I’ll go to the divil, or just anywhere,” he said, “with the right sort of people, but these strangers I’m not so quick to follow! I’m forninst colloguin’ wid men not known to be friends.” “So am I!” said Pat Butler, a hardy little fellow, with black hair, a keen eye, and a look of resolution on his sharp face. “And I,” echoed McAndrew. The scene presented at Number Three Hill was impressive, but almost shrouded in darkness. Seated on rocks, bits of logs, and heaps of earth, and leaning against the bodies of stunted trees, the men were grouped, recognizing each other by their shapes and the sound of their voices. The stars gave just light enough, at that hour and season of the year, to make human faces and figures dimly visible.