He was a pious member of the Presbyterian church, but his face didn't have a pious expression to-day. He had been refused the right to vote because he had aided the Confederacy by nursing one of his wounded boys.
He touched his hat politely to Ben.
"What do you think of it, Colonel Cameron?" he asked with a touch of scorn.
"What's your opinion, Mr. McAllister?"
"Well, Colonel, I've been a member of the church for over forty years. I'm not a cussin' man—but there's a sight I never expected to live to see. I've been a faithful citizen of this state for fifty years. I can't vote, and a nigger is to be elected to-day to represent me in the Legislature. Neither you, Colonel, nor your father are good enough to vote. Every nigger in this county sixteen years old and up voted to-day—I ain't a cussin' man, and I don't say it as a cuss-word, but all I've got to say is, if there be such a thing as a d—d shame—that's it!"
"Mr. McAllister, the recording angel wouldn't have made a mark had you said it without the 'if.'"
"God knows what this country's comin' to—I don't," said the old man, bitterly. "I'm afraid to let my wife and daughter go out of the house, or stay in it, without somebody with them."
Ben leaned closer and whispered, as Phil approached:
"Come to my office to-night at ten o'clock; I want to see you on some important business."
The old man seized his hand eagerly.
"Shall I bring the boys?"
Ben smiled.
"No. I've seen them some time ago."
