Beyond the valley, still farther away from the town, was the negro church, of which the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin was the admired pastor. Ordinarily, there were services in this church three times a week, unless one of the constantly recurring revivals was in progress, and then there were services every night in the week, and sometimes all night long. The Rev. Jeremiah was a preacher who had lung-power to spare, and his voice was well calculated to shatter our old friend the welkin, so dear to poets and romancers. But if there was no revival in progress, the nights devoted to prayer-meetings were mainly musical, and the songs, subdued by the distance, floated across the valley to Gabriel with entrancing sweetness.
One Wednesday night, when the political conditions were at their worst, Gabriel observed that while the lights were lit in the church, there was less singing than usual. This attracted his attention and then excited his curiosity. Listening more intently, he failed to hear the sound of a single voice lifted in prayer, in song or in preaching. The time was after nine o'clock, and this silence was so unusual that Gabriel concluded to investigate.
He made his way across the valley, and was soon within ear-shot of the church. The pulpit was unoccupied, but Gabriel could see that a white man was standing in front of it. The inference to be drawn from his movements and gestures was that he was delivering an address to the negroes. Hotchkiss was standing near the speaker, leaning in a familiar way on one of the side projections of the pulpit. Gabriel knew Hotchkiss, but the man who was speaking was a stranger. He was flushed as with wine, and appeared to have no control of his hands, for he flung them about wildly.
Gabriel crept closer, and climbed a small tree, in the hope that he might hear what the stranger was saying, but listen as he might, no sound of the stranger's voice came to Gabriel. The church was full of negroes, and a strange silence had fallen on them. He marvelled somewhat at this, for the night was pleasant, and every window was open. The impression made upon the young fellow was very peculiar. Here was a man flinging his arms about in the heat and ardour of argument or exhortation, and yet not a sound came through the windows.
Suddenly, while Gabriel was leaning forward trying in vain to hear the words of the speaker, a tall, white figure, mounted on a tall white horse, emerged from the copse at the rear of the church. At the first glance, Gabriel found it difficult to discover what the figures were, but as horse and rider swerved in the direction of the church, he saw that both were clad in white and flowing raiment. While he was gazing with all his eyes, another figure emerged from the copse, then another, and another, until thirteen white riders, including the leader, had come into view. Following one another at intervals, they marched around the church, observing the most profound silence. The hoofs of their horses made no sound. Three times this ghostly procession marched around the church. Finally they paused, each horseman at a window, save the leader, who, being taller than the rest, had stationed himself at the door.
He was the first to break the silence. "Brothers, is all well with you?" his voice was strong and sonorous.
"All is not well," replied twelve voices in chorus.
"What do you see?" the impressive voice of the leader asked.
"Trouble, misery, blood!" came the answering chorus.
"Blood?" cried the leader.