Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest listened with keen interest.
"The fellow richly deserves lynching," was the unanimous verdict, "but, as you say, is already suffering a far worse fate."
"And yet no worse than that of thousands of innocent men," remarked Jones bitterly. "Where's the justice of it?"
"Do you expect even-handed justice here?" inquired another.
"Perhaps he may be no worse in the sight of God, than some of the rest of us," said Harold, in low, grave tones; "we do not know what evil influences may have surrounded him from his very birth, or whether, exposed to the same, we would have turned out any better."
"I'm perishing with thirst," said Jones, "and must try pushing through that crowd about the spring."
He wandered off and the group scattered, leaving Harold and Duncan alone together.
The two had a long talk: of home, common friends and acquaintance; of the war, what this or that Federal force was probably now attempting; what future movements were likely to be made, and how the contest would end; neither doubting the final triumph of the government.
"And that triumph can't be very far off either," concluded Harry. "I think the struggle will be over before this time next year, and I hope you and I may have a hand in the winding up."
"Perhaps you may," Allison rejoined a little sadly; "but I, I fear, have struck my last blow for my native land."