They burned his house, destroyed everything he and his sons had garnered. But he had only begun his war upon the slavers. Out of the night he came, time after time, and always he left death behind. “He’s mad! Mad!” they said, but pro-slavery men began to leave Kansas. “Da freedom’s comin’!” Black men lifted their hands in silent ecstasy. They slipped across the borders and looked for John Brown. Tabor, a tiny prairie Iowa town of thirty homesteads, became the most important Underground Railroad station on the western frontier. For here John Brown set up camp, and began to organize for his “march.” Strength had come up in the old man, charging his whole being with power. “We should not have given him money!” the folks back East were saying. Douglass, moving back and forth from Rochester to Boston--to New York, Syracuse and Cleveland--grew thin and haggard. He had stood like a bulwark of strength, even when the Supreme Court had handed down its Dred Scott decision. People found clarion words in the _North Star_. “The Supreme Court of the United States is not the only power in this world,” Douglass wrote. “We, the Abolitionists and colored people, should meet this decision, unlooked for and monstrous as it appears, in a cheerful spirit. This very attempt to blot out forever the hopes of an enslaved people may be one necessary link in the chain of events preparatory to the complete overthrow of the whole slave system.” Months passed, and all he heard from Kansas were the awful reports of John Brown’s riding abroad. He could not argue the right or wrong of this thing. Condemnation of John Brown left him cold. But was John Brown destroying all they had built up? This was war! Was John Brown’s way the only way? They had lost the election. The new party’s fine words fell back upon them like chilling drops of rain. Then out in Kansas the Governor declared the state free! There was peace in Kansas. * * * * * One night in January, 1858, Douglass was working late in the shop. The house was still, locked in the hard fastness of a winter night. Outside, great slow white flakes were falling, erasing the contours of the street beneath a blanket that rounded every eave, leveled fences and walks, and muffled every sound. But he heard the light tapping on the window pane and instantly put out the light. There must be no light to throw shadows when he opened the door upon one of his fugitives. But even without a light he recognized the muffled figure. “John Brown!” Douglass’ low voice sang a welcome. He drew him in and brushed the snowflakes off. He lit the lamp with hands that trembled. Then he turned and looked at this man who had proved that he hated slavery more than he loved his life, his good name, or his sons. Even the little flesh he used to have was burned away. Yet one could see that all his bones were granite, and bright within the chalice of his mortal frame his spirit shone, unquenchable.