“Who is he, anyhow?”

“He’s an abolitionist; just the kind that’ll look a darned sight more natural in a coat of tar and feathers.  Cut out his heart and you’ll find John Brown’s picture there as large as life.”

At the mention of Harold’s name, Arthur and Beverly had started up simultaneously, and throwing open the bar-room door, entered hastily.  Harold had risen from his seat and stood confronting Rawbon with an air in which anger and contempt were strangely blended.  The latter leaned with awkward carelessness against the counter, sipping a glass of spirits and water with a malicious smile.

“You are an insolent scoundrel,” said Harold, “and I would horsewhip you, if you were worth the pains.”

Rawbon looked around and for a second seemed to study the faces of those about him.  Then lazily reaching over toward Harold, he took him by the arm and drew him toward the counter.

“Say, you just come and drink to South Carolina.”

The heavy horsewhip in Harold’s hand rose suddenly and descended like a flash.  The knotted lash struck Rawbon full in the mouth, splitting the lips like a knife.  In an instant several knives were drawn, and Rawbon, spluttering an oath through the spurting blood that choked his utterance, drew a revolver from its holster at his side.

The entrance of the two young men was timely.  They immediately placed themselves in front of Harold, and Arthur, with his usual mild expression, looked full in Rawbon’s eye, although the latter’s pistol was in a line with his breast.

“Stand out of the way, you two,” shouted Rawbon, savagely.

“What is the meaning of this, gentlemen?” said Beverly, quietly, to the excited bystanders, to several of whom he was personally known.

“Squire Weems,” replied one among them, “you had better stand aside.  Rawbon has a lien on that fellow’s hide.  He’s an abolitionist, anyhow, and ain’t worth your interference.”

“He is my very intimate friend, and I will answer for him to any one here,” said Beverly, warmly.

“I will answer for myself,” said Hare, pressing forward.

“Then answer that!” yelled Rawbon, levelling and shooting with a rapid movement.  But Wayne’s quiet eye had been riveted upon him all the while, and he had thrown up the ruffian’s arm as he pulled the trigger.

Beverly’s eyes flashed like live coals, and he sprang at Rawbon’s throat, but the crowd pressed between them, and for a while the utmost confusion prevailed, but no blows were struck.  The landlord, a sullen, black-browed man, who had hitherto leaned silently on the counter, taking no part in the fray, now interposed.

“Come, I don’t want no more loose shooting here!” and, by way of assisting his remark, he took down his double-barrelled shot-gun and jumped upon the counter.  The fellow was well known for a desperate though not quarrelsome character, and his action had the effect of somewhat quieting the excited crowd.