[Illustration: MIRIAM COOPER AS MARGARET CAMERON.]

"It was a mad impulse, in my defence as well as his own."

"Impulse, yes! But back of it lay banked the fires of cruelty and race
hatred! The Nation cannot live with such barbarism rotting its heart
out."

"But this is war, sir--a war of races, and this an accident of
war--besides, his life had been attempted by them twice before."

"So I've heard, and yet the negro always happens to be the victim----"

Margaret leaped to her feet and glared at the old man for a moment in
uncontrollable anger.

"Are you a fiend?" she fairly shrieked.

Old Stoneman merely pursed his lips.

The girl came a step closer, and extended her hand again in mute appeal.

"No, I was foolish. You are not cruel. I have heard of a hundred acts of
charity you have done among our poor. Come, this is horrible! It is
impossible! You cannot consent to the death of your son----"

Stoneman looked up sharply:

"Thank God, he hasn't married my daughter yet----"

"Your daughter!" gasped Margaret. "I've told you it was Phil who killed
the negro! He took Ben's place just before the guards were exchanged----"

"Phil!--Phil?" shrieked the old man, staggering to his club foot and
stumbling toward Margaret with dilated eyes and whitening face; "My
boy--Phil?--why--why, are you crazy?--Phil? Did you say--_Phil_?"

"Yes. Ben persuaded him to go to Charlotte until the excitement passed to
avoid trouble. Come, come, sir, we must be quick! We may be too late!"

She seized and pulled him toward the door.

"Yes. Yes, we must hurry," he said in a laboured whisper, looking around
dazed. "You will show me the way, my child--you love him--yes, we will go
quickly--quickly! my boy--my boy!"

Margaret called the landlord, and while they hitched Queen to the buggy,
the old man stood helplessly wringing and fumbling his big ugly hands,
muttering incoherently, and tugging at his collar as though about to
suffocate.

As they dashed away, old Stoneman laid a trembling hand on Margaret's
arm.

"Your horse is a good one, my child?"

"Yes; the one Marion saved--the finest in the county."

"And you know the way?"

"Every foot of it. Phil and I have driven it often."

"Yes, yes--you love him," he sighed, pressing her hand.

Through the long reckless drive, as the mare flew over the rough hills,
every nerve and muscle of her fine body at its utmost tension, the father
sat silent. He braced his club foot again