“You haven’t heard?” he broke out. “Oh, it’s frightful! Senator Sumner was attacked yesterday in the senate chamber and beaten almost to death!”
“My God, Horace! Who did it?” cried Dr. Ware, gripping the other’s hand, his face paling.
“Preston Brooks—”
“Of South Carolina—yes, go on!”
“Senator Butler’s nephew—that speech of Sumner’s the other day—”
“Yes, yes! The crimes of the South! Brooks has killed him?”
“No, but he may not live. Brooks came upon him from behind, as he sat at his desk, and while he was penned there pounded him over the head with a heavy cane.”
“Will the North stand this insult?” Dr. Ware exclaimed, dropping the other’s hand, which unconsciously he had been gripping and shaking during their colloquy. With quick steps and short turns he marched this way and that as they went on talking, running his fingers through his hair until it stood upright. Rhoda shared in their excitement, her nerves still tingling from her recent emotion, mind and heart alike ready to be deeply impressed by the news. With brief, sharp sentences they broke across one another’s speech, turning pale faces and glittering eyes from one to another.
“Brooks’s companions held back those who tried to go to Sumner’s help!”
“Oh, what a brutal and cowardly—”