Then I saw a movement in the crowd—or felt it rather—that chilled my heart with terror. I knew what would happen now, knew it, with unerring instinct—and I trembled as a fawn quivers when it hears the first low cry of distant dogs. And swiftly, silently, scorning both aunt and mother, I flew through the door on to the porch, down the steps, gliding like a shadow till I found shelter behind an ancient elm on the outskirts of the swaying crowd. I was as safe there, and as unobserved, as though I had been a hundred miles away.
It only took a minute, but Gordon had begun to speak before I got there, his quivering voice ringing like a bell through the night. The men before me were just beginning to recover from the first shock of surprise.
"Who is that —— fool?" I heard one enquire, not more than four feet ahead of me.
"I know him," a voice answered. I recognized the informant at once—he had been to our house for supper only a few nights before. "He's a parson that's visiting the Lundys. A —— Scotchman," he went on contemptuously; "his father's a collie dog over there—takes care of sheep on the hills, he told me."
I knew how helpless I was, but my blood was boiling. I shook my fist at the horrid creature from where I stood—I could have lynched him, right then and there.
"If you must kill him before he's proved guilty," came Gordon's voice, "kill him like white men, not like Indians."
A mighty roar went up at this, and the crowd swayed nearer to the central figures. A loud howl of terror came from the negro. But the immediate peril was not for him—the storm was raging now about another head than his. I think a moment later would have seen Gordon in the clutches of the mob, had it not been temporarily restrained by one of the oldest and most honoured of our citizens. I saw him lift his hand as a signal for silence; in a moment he and Gordon seemed to be carrying on an animated argument. I couldn't hear Colonel Mitford, for such was his name; but I could catch Gordon's voice.
"I've heard plenty about your Southern chivalry—would you lynch a white man if he offered the same indignity to a black woman as this wretch has done?"
The Colonel seemed to pause for a season. And really, it's not much wonder that he should—I am as Southern as any one who ever lived, but that question makes me pause even yet. Soon the Colonel broke out again, this time into quite a prolonged speech.
"It's all your rightful heritage," came back Gordon's voice, ringing high; "it's the legacy slavery has left you. You're only reaping what you sowed."