Lee examined the pike carefully. He measured its long stiletto-like blade, projecting nine inches from its fastenings in the hickory handle. He observed the skill and care with which the rivets had been set.
"An ugly piece of iron," he said at last.
"I'll bet they've thousands of them somewhere back in these hills,"
Stuart added.
"And not a negro has lifted his hand against his master?"
"Not one."
Lee ran his fingers along the edges of the blade and a dreamy look came into his thoughtful eyes.
"My boy, such people deserve their freedom. But not this way—not this way! God save us from the horrors of the mob and the fanatic who leads them! Slavery is surely and swiftly dying. It cannot survive the economic pressure of the century. If only we can be saved from such madness."
His voice died away as in a troubled dream. He looked up suddenly and turned to his aide.
"I must summon their leader to surrender. You have not yet learned his name?"
"He calls himself John Smith, sir. They've been here all summer in an old farmhouse on the Maryland side."