There was an awkward pause. The band, already on its way toward the prisoner, halted. The man who had been pushing Bannister along, loosened his hold. No one seemed quite ready to answer Miss Stark’s question. At last, the chairman of the meeting, feeling that the duty of acting as spokesman devolved properly upon him, replied:—

“The man is a traitor, Miss Stark. He is not fit to remain with us. It is for our own protection that we are sending him away.”

Sarah Jane Stark tossed her head scornfully.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t see that any of you are in very great or immediate personal danger. And as for bravery, it don’t take much courage for fifty men to set on one man and tie his hands behind his back and buffet and abuse him. I’ve watched the whole thing, and I don’t like it. The man made a fool of himself, that’s true, and Judge Morgan told him so. Now you’re making fools of yourselves, and it’s time some one told you so. I thought I’d be the one, that’s all.”

“But, Miss Stark,” persisted the chairman, “he’s a copperhead, he’s a defamer of the President and the country, he deserves no consideration, either from us or from you.”

“Yes,” added one in the crowd, “and he’s a member of the Knights of the Golden Circle, and they plot treason and murder.”

Then Bannister found his voice for the first time in many minutes.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “I’m not a member of the Knights of the Golden Circle. I plot nothing. What I think, I say. What I do, I’m not ashamed of. What you cowards can do to me, I’m not afraid of.”

Sarah Jane Stark turned on him savagely.

“You shut up!” she commanded. “I’m doing the talking for this delegation.”

Then again she addressed the chairman of the meeting.

“You ought to know,” she said, “that I’m no copperhead. I detest ’em. You ought to know that with two brothers and a nephew in the Union armies I have some sympathy with the soldiers. And if I ever loved a man in my life I love Abe Lincoln. But there’s nothing I love quite so much as I do fair play. And this isn’t fair play.”

It was strange how quiet the crowd had become. But then, when Sarah Jane Stark had anything to say, people were always ready to listen.

“Now, the best thing for you people to do,” she added, “the decent thing to do, is to loosen this man’s hands, give him his coat and hat, and let him go quietly away to reflect on his monumental foolishness.”

She was already untying the handkerchief that bound Bannister’s wrists together as she spoke.

“Folly like his,” she went on, “brings its own reward. Maybe the good Lord wants him for a Union soldier and will supervise the draft to that end. So it isn’t for you to fly in the face of Providence and spoil it all before the time is ripe. And you,” giving Bannister a little push as she spoke, “you go home and get down on your knees and pray for common sense.”

No one else on earth, save possibly his own cherished wife, could have sealed Rhett Bannister’s lips and started him homeward this day. But he had respect for Sarah Jane Stark. Along with his townsmen, he honored her motives, deferred to her judgment, and obeyed her commands. So, almost unconsciously, before he fairly knew what he was doing, before he had time to think whether he was retreating ignominiously from his enemies, or leaving them in disgust, he found himself alone on the highway walking toward his home.

When he reached his house, he found his wife and children all waiting for him on the porch. Much as Bob liked music and crowds and excitement, he had not cared to go up to the village to-day, and had induced Louise to stay at home with him. And as for poor Mrs. Bannister, she shrank with dread from meeting any of her neighbors.

The fact that something had happened to him during his two hours’ absence Bannister could not conceal. It was too evident, from his appearance, that he had been roughly treated. But neither of his children dared to ask him questions, and his wife contented herself with smoothing back his hair and rearranging his tie, knowing full well in her fluttering and fearful heart, that vengeance had been meted out to him, and that sooner or later she would know the whole unhappy story.

After supper Bob set off some modest fireworks that he had purchased a few days before—two or three rockets, a dozen Roman candles, some pin wheels and giant crackers. And so, as darkness descended, the Bannister family found some little consolation, some little relief from the nervous strain of the last few days, in the temporary pleasure of illuminated patriotism.

Yet, through it all, there was anxiety and apprehension. Wrought up by music and oratory and fireworks and news of victories, there was no telling what excesses the ultra-patriotic, irrepressible young people of the village might indulge in at the expense of a hated copperhead. Every noise from the direction of the town, every sound of hoofbeats on the highway, of footfalls on the side path, sent a thrill to the nerves and a chill to the heart of Mary Bannister. But, as the evening wore on without incident, she began to feel a measure of relief. Then the gate-latch clicked and some one entered the yard and started up the path toward the house. But the suspense of uncertainty lasted only for a moment, for the heavy strokes of the cane on the walk, and the uncertain footsteps, announced the approach of their next neighbor to the east, Seth Mills. He was cordially greeted and invited to a seat on the porch.

“I’ve just heard,” he explained, “what happened up-town to-day, an’ I thought I’d come over an’ tell ye—”

“Mary,” said Bannister, “don’t you think you had better take Louise up to bed? It’s getting quite late. You may stay, Robert, if you wish.”

And when the woman and child had said good-night and had gone, he turned to his visitor and continued: “Pardon me for interrupting you, Seth; but you see they don’t know, and I thought it was hardly worth while to have their feelings worked up over it.”

“Jest so! Jest so!” responded the old man. “Protect the women and children. That’s what I say. But they wasn’t much I wanted to tell ye, Rhett, only that, accordin’ to my views, they didn’t treat ye right, an’ I’m sorry for it. They ort to be ashamed of it themselves. Mebbe they will be when they’ve hed time to think it over. Me an’ you don’t agree in politics, Rhett, nor about the war, but that ain’t no reason why we shouldn’t treat each other decent. That’s what I say.”

“And you are right about it, Seth. But I believe that you and I are the only two men in this community who could discuss their political differences without passion. You are of Kentucky ancestry, I am of South Carolinian. These other people here are either of the domineering Yankee type, or else are descended from the stubborn Pennsylvania settlers. Perhaps that accounts for their lack of fairness and reason. I have often wondered how Abraham Lincoln, with his Virginia ancestry, his Kentucky birth, and his western training, could be so narrow, so illogical, so illiberal, so utterly heartless as he has shown himself to be.”

“I don’t think them are proper words, Rhett, to apply to Abraham Lincoln. I knowed him personally, you know, back in Illinois. I’ve told you that a hundred times. An’ I’ve studied him a good deal sence then, and I’ve come to the conclusion ’at they ain’t no man ever lived in this country who can see furder ahead, an’ know better how to git there’n Abe Lincoln. An’ I don’t believe no other president, or king, or emperor for that matter, has ever felt on his heart a personal responsibility for his country as Abe Lincoln has felt it, or has strove or struggled or strained or labored or prayed as Abe Lincoln hes, that his country might be saved an’ become great an’ happy. That’s what I say.”

“But, Seth, that’s mere sentiment. Take the facts. Why can’t he see, if he has such marvelous insight, that the South is demanding merely her rights? All she wants now is to be let alone, to take her property and go, to govern herself as she sees fit. And when she is assured that she may do so, this war will cease, peace will come, the horrible struggle will be at an end. Why does Abraham Lincoln persist in striving to compel this brave people, by force of arms, to pass again under the galling yoke of his hostile government?”

“I’ll tell ye why, Rhett. It’s becuz Abe Lincoln sees better’n they do what’s best fur ’em. He sees that ef the South was permitted to go an’ set up a separate govamint, an’ hev her own institutions an’ flag, an’ foreign ministers, an’ all that, ’at the next thing, by cracky! the Western states ’d want to jine up an’ do the same thing, with jest as good reason, an’ then the New England states ’d foller suit, an’ in less’n ten years they’d be a dozen different govamints, in place of the old United States, an’ they’d be everlastingly at each other’s throats, an’ they wouldn’t one of ’em amount to a hill o’ beans. It’d be rank folly; that’s what I say.”

“I know, but, Seth, it’s not necessary to borrow trouble for the future. If this man would only do what is right and just in the present, the future would take care of itself. It always does. He claims that he wants to save the Union. Very well. There’s a way open for him. The South is not anxious to leave the Union. If she were assured of the rights and consideration to which she is entitled, she would stay with us. Abraham Lincoln, by virtue of the power of his office, could secure those rights to her if he would. She must have such voice in the control of this government as she is entitled to have by reason of her ancestry, her intelligence, and her patriotism. And she must have protection for her property at home and abroad, whether that property consists of land, money, or slaves. Give her these things and she would be back with us at once. Oh, if Abraham Lincoln could only see this and act accordingly! If he would only cut loose from the radicals and the abolitionists, and the petty politicians who control him, and who even now treat him behind his back with ridicule and contempt; if he would only heed the counsels of such men as Vallandigham, Fernando Wood, Judge Woodward, and Judge Taney, patriots all of them; if he would even now sue for an honorable peace and strive for a united country, he would get it and get it abundantly. But, alas! your Lincoln, with his assumed simplicity, his high-sounding phrases, and his crafty logic, is, after all, but a coward and a time-server, bending the country to his own selfish ends, plunging her into destruction in order that the bloody zealots at Washington may be satisfied. Oh, the folly, the misery, the tragedy of it all!”

The old man did not answer at once. He sat, for a full minute, looking off to the faint line that marked the western hill-range from the star-flecked sky. Over in the corner of the porch the boy, who had listened intently, breathlessly, to the discussion, moved and drew nearer. From somewhere in the house came the faint music of a good-night song. Then Seth Mills, straightening up in his chair, took up again the thread of conversation.

“I don’t see as it’s any use fur you an’ me to argy this thing, Rhett. We don’t git no nearer together. We’ve each got our opinions, an’ so fur as I can see, we’re likely to keep ’em. But you’ve called Abe Lincoln a coward. Now, I want to tell you somethin’. I knowed Lincoln out there in New Salem when he was runnin’ Denton Offut’s store. I’ve told ye that before. An’ I’ve told ye how the Clary’s Grove boys come down one day to match Jack Armstrong ag’inst Lincoln in a wrastlin’ match. An’ how, when Jack tried a foul, Abe got mad, an’ ketched him by the throat an’ give him the blamedest shakin’ up he ever hed in his life. I didn’t see that, but I know the story’s straight. An’ I’ve told ye how he straddled a log with a rope tied to it, an’ pushed out into the Sangamon River at flood, that spring after the deep snow, an’ went tearin’ down with the current, an’ saved the lives o’ three men a-clingin’ to a tree-top in midstream, an’ come near a-losin’ of his own life a-doin’ of it. I seen him do that myself. An’ one night, when we was settin’ round the stove in Offut’s store, swoppin’ yarns, Jim Hanniwell come in considable the worse fur liquor, an’ begun a-cussin’ an’ a-swearin’ like he us’ally did when he was drunk. An’ some women come in to buy somethin’, an’ Jim never stopped, an’ Lincoln says, ‘Jim, that’ll do, they’s women here.’ An’ Jim allowed he’d say what he blame pleased, women or no women, an’ he did. An’ w’en the women was gone, Lincoln come out aroun’ from behind the counter an’ says, ‘Jim, somebody’s got to give you a lickin’ an’ it might as well be me as anybody.’ An’ he took him an’ chucked him out-doors, an’ throwed him into the mud in the road, an’ rubbed dog-fennel into his mouth, till the feller yelled fur mercy. I seen him do that too. Mebbe I’ve told ye all these things before, an’ mebbe I ain’t; but I never told you, nor no one else, what I’m goin’ to tell ye now, an’ I wouldn’t tell ye this ef you hadn’t ’a’ said Abe Lincoln was heartless an’ a coward. It was in that same winter of ’32. I was out with the Clary’s Grove boys one night, an’ the liquor went round perty free, an’ to make a long story short, I was layin’ in a snow-bank alongside the road, about midnight, half a mile from my cabin, dead drunk, an’ the weather around zero. An’ Abe Lincoln happened along that way an’ found me. It ain’t a nice story, Rhett, so fur’s I’m concerned, but I’m a-talkin’ plain to-night. He wasn’t under no obligation to me. I wasn’t much account them days, anyway. But he turned me over an’ seen who I wuz an’ what the matter wuz, an’ then he twisted me up onto his long back, Abe Lincoln did, an’ toted me that hull half-mile up-hill, in zero weather, to my home an’ my wife, God bless her, an’ he dropped me on the bed an’ he says, ‘Let him sleep it off, Mis’ Mills; he’ll feel better in the mornin’; an’ when he wakes up tell him Abe Lincoln asks him not to drink any more.’ An’ I ain’t, Rhett,—I ain’t teched a drop o’ liquor sence that night. But what I want to say is that the man that had strength enough an’ heart enough to do that fur me who was nothin’ to him, has got strength enough an’ heart enough an’ grit enough to carry this country that he loves, on his bent shoulders, through the awfulest storm that ever swept it, till he brings it home safe an’ sound an’ unbroken to all of us. It’s a mighty task, Rhett Bannister; but he’s a-goin’ to do it; I know ’im, an’ I tell ye he’s a-goin’ to do it; an’ when he’s done it, you an’ me an’ ev’ry man ’at loves his country as he ort to, is goin’ to git down on our knees an’ thank God ’at Abraham Lincoln ever lived.”

Clear and resonant on the night air the old man’s voice rang as he finished his story and rose to his feet. And while his face could not be seen for the darkness, they who heard him felt that it was aglow with enthusiasm and love for the largest-minded, biggest-hearted man that had ever crossed his path—Abraham Lincoln. And Bob, leaning far forward in his chair, drinking in every word of the story, thrilled with the earnestness of the speaker, felt his heart fired anew with reverence and enthusiasm for the great war-president, and with zeal for the cause which he had so faithfully espoused.

Rhett Bannister was too much of a gentleman and too deeply artistic in temperament to try to break with argument or depreciation the force of the old man’s recital.

“Oh, well!” he said, rising. “We all have our heroes. This would be a sad world if there were no heroes to worship. And I can’t blame you, Seth, for having put a halo around Lincoln’s head.”

“Thank you, Rhett; good-night!”

The old man limped slowly down the path and out into the road and turned his face toward home. After that, to those who sat upon the porch, the quiet of the windless, starlit summer night was unbroken. Over in the direction of the village an occasional rocket flared up into the sky and fell back into darkness—nothing more.

But from that night the dominating personality in Bob Bannister’s life was Abraham Lincoln. Look which way he would, the vision of that rugged, kindly face, which he had seen so often pictured, and the tall, gaunt form, stood out ever before his eyes, heroic, paternal, potential to the uttermost. From Seth Mills he obtained a small volume published in 1860 reciting the President’s career. And from the same source he got what was much better, that modest, unique sketch of Lincoln’s life, written by himself at about the same time for the same purpose. These books he read and reread many times, and the oftener he read them the greater grew his admiration for the one great hero of his thought and life.

In the meantime, under the conscription act of March 3, 1863, put in force by the proclamation of the President, the enrollment for the draft went on. In many of the states the drawings were made in July. On the thirteenth of that month began the draft riots in the city of New York, which were suppressed only after the destruction by the mob of much property, after the shedding of much blood and the loss of many lives. The country was deeply stirred. The anti-war party took advantage of the opportunity to denounce the government at Washington openly and bitterly. Only in communities where the sentiment was intensely patriotic was the policy of the draft upheld. Mount Hermon was one of these communities. Already partially depopulated by her voluntary contributions of men to the Union armies, she nevertheless accepted the situation philosophically and cheerfully, believing with Lincoln, that this was the only practical way to put a speedy end to the war.

But to Rhett Bannister this draft was the crowning act of infamy perpetrated by a tyrannical government. His whole nature rebelled against the idea of being compelled, on pain of death, to bear arms against his brothers of the South whom he believed to be absolutely in the right. It was not until September, however, that the drawing for the Congressional district in which he resided, the Eleventh of Pennsylvania, took place at Easton under the supervision of the provost-marshal, Captain Samuel Yohe.

It happened that on the afternoon of the last day of the drawing Bob went up to the village to make some purchases and do some errands for his father. Since his unfortunate experience on Independence Day Rhett Bannister had not often been seen among his neighbors. Aside from a few of the more radical sympathizers with the Southern cause, not many people sought him socially, and by the entire Union element he was practically ostracized.

The condemnation visited on his father Bob could not wholly escape. While there were few who knew of his own loyalty, there were many who knew only that he was the son of Rhett Bannister the despised copperhead. So, in these days, when Bob went up to the village he spent no time in loitering, or visiting, or playing with his former schoolfellows. His errands done, he started without delay on his way toward home.

But, on this September afternoon, there was excitement at the village. For two successive days the names drawn from the wheel at Easton had included but a bare half-dozen from Mount Hermon. And these were the names of men who could well afford to pay the three hundred dollars demanded by the government as the price of their release from service. But to-day, the last day of the drawing, it was more than probable that the number of men drafted from Mount Hermon would be at least doubled.

So, as the day wore on, the crowd about the door of the post-office increased. At five o’clock a special messenger would arrive from Carbon Creek with a list of the men that day drafted from Mount Hermon township, the list having been sent by telegraph from Easton to that station.

When finally the messenger arrived, Bob was listening with breathless interest to a discussion concerning the Emancipation Proclamation, and it was only when he heard some one shout, “Here’s the list!” that he realized what had happened.

“Let Adam Johns read it,” demanded a man in the crowd.

Whereupon the young schoolmaster, mounting a chair, and unfolding the paper placed in his hands, began to read. And the very first name that he read was his own. He looked out calmly over the group of men before him, his face paling somewhat with the shock of the news.

“I will go,” he said. “I ought to have gone before. I am ashamed to have waited for—for this—but—”

“You’re all right, Adam!” interrupted some one in the crowd, who knew how the schoolmaster’s widowed mother leaned on him for comfort and support, “you’re all right. There’s a dozen of us here that’ll be sons to her when you go.”

The young man wiped from his eyes the sudden moisture that dimmed his sight, and went on with the reading of the list. It was not a long one. There were some surprises, but there was no demonstration. For the most part the reading was greeted with the silence of intense earnestness. And the very last name on the list was the name of Rhett Bannister. The schoolmaster’s hand grasping the paper fell to his side. For an instant no one spoke. Then a man shouted, “Hurrah for the draft!” and another one cried, “Uncle Sam’s got him now!” and then, amid the confusion of voices, men were heard everywhere congratulating one another on the drafting of Rhett Bannister.

With flushed face Bob started for the door, and the crowd parted to let him pass. But outside he ran into a group of his schoolmates, the same boys who had court-martialed him and dismissed him in disgrace from their company three months before.

“Old man got struck with lightnin’ this time, didn’t he, Bob?” called out Sam Powers.

“He’ll skedaddle for Pike County when he hears about it,” added “Brilly.” “Better run home an’ tell him, quick.”

“He don’t dare to,” responded Sam. “I’ll dare you,” he continued, shaking his forefinger in Bob’s face, “to go home an’ tell your copperhead dad he’s drafted!”

“Aw, shucks!” exclaimed Bill Hinkle. “You fellows are smart, ain’t you! Let him alone. He ain’t done nothin’ to you. Aw, shucks!”

And then Bob got angry.

“It’s none o’ you fellows’ business,” he said, “whether my father’s drafted or not. You’re bullies an’ cowards, the whole lot of you! Get out o’ my way!”

And so, with flashing eye, heaving breast, erect head, he passed through the crowd of boys untouched. Awed and silenced by his outburst of wrath, they dared not molest him. But, as he went down the road through the gathering twilight toward his home, he began to wonder if, after all, Sam Powers was not right. Would he dare to tell his father?