Darkness was approaching, and though the hills around were still touched by the glow of the setting sun, its refracted rays seemed to exaggerate the squalor, and magnify the deformities of the little town in the valley; and, exalting the warlike preparations, to clothe them with every imaginable horror; while the humidity of the evening air intensified the sounds of blood-thirsty riot.
Justice Marmor now closed and locked his office door, and began at this tardy moment, to think of adopting Mrs. M’s advice.
Stepping out of his own back door, he leaped the fence into his neighbor’s yard, and, mounting his doorsteps, stood in a closely latticed corner of a porch, and took observations.
The square was surrounded by the Rifle-clubs,—the remnants and second-growth of the cropped, but not uprooted Confederate cavalry,—standing thick, two abreast, with guns resting upon each left arm.
In the vernacular of the South, Marmor was “a scallawag,” for, though once a brave Confederate soldier, he had become a consistent advocate of the idea that the “all men” who are “created free and equal” includes the colored race; and probably no man in the devoted town stood in greater danger than he.
“Co im ’s house, Meester Marmor:——i’m ’s house quick!” said Dan Lemfield, opening the back-door of his dwelling. You be mine neighbor, and shall not be shot on mine dreshold. Co hide self! Co!”
Marmor did not decline the invitation, but stepped quickly in, and passing to the parlor in front, peeped from behind the window shades, which Mrs. Lemfield had drawn closely down.
At the opposite corner of the street, his most implacable enemy, the eldest son of Col. Baker, sat upon his horse, with self-complacent manner waiting the appearance of his prey, or the word of command from the great General. He was supported by eight or ten other men, not less vigilant.