“Judge,” said the Captain, instantly, “I'm not the only one in this town who will have to decide whether my sympathies are wrong. My sympathies are with the South.”
“It's not a question of sympathy, Captain,” answered the Judge, dryly. “Abraham Lincoln himself was born in Kentucky.”
They had not heard a step without.
“Gentlemen, mark my words. If Abraham Lincoln is elected, the South leaves this Union.”
The Judge started, and looked up. The speaker was Colonel Carvel himself.
“Then, sir,” Mr. Whipple cried hotly, “then you will be chastised and brought back. For at last we have chosen a man who is strong enough,—who does not fear your fire-eaters,—whose electors depend on Northern votes alone.”
Stephen rose apprehensively, So did Captain Lige The Colonel had taken a step forward, and a fire was quick to kindle in his gray eyes. It was as quick to die. Judge Whipple, deathly pale, staggered and fell into Stephen' arms. But it was the Colonel who laid him on the horsehair sofa.
“Silas!” he said, “Silas!”
Nor could the two who listened sound the depth of the pathos the Colonel put into those two words.
But the Judge had not fainted. And the brusqueness in his weakened voice was even more pathetic— “Tut, tut,” said he. “A little heat, and no breakfast.”