“Now look below,” continued Arthur, “at that swarm of human beings clustering together like angry bees.  As we stand here gazing at the glorious pageant which nature spreads out before us, one might suppose that only for some festival of rejoicing or thanksgiving would men assemble at such an hour and in such a scene.  But what are the beauties of the landscape, bathed in the glories of the setting-sun, to them?  They have met to listen to words of passion and bitterness, to doctrines of strife, to denunciations and criminations against their fellow-men.  And, doubtless, a similar scene of freemen invoking the spirit of contention that we behold yonder in that pleasant valley of the Old Dominion, is being enacted at the North and at the South, at the East and at the West, all over the length and breadth of our country.  The seeds of discord are being carefully and persistently gathered and disseminated, and on both sides, these erring mortals will claim to be acting in the name of patriotism.  Beverly, do you surmise nothing ominous of evil in that gathering?”

“Ten to one, some stirring news from Charleston.  We must ride over after supper, Arthur, and learn the upshot of it.”

“And I will be a sybil for the nonce,” said Oriana, with a kindling eye, “and prophecy that Southern cannon have opened upon Sumter.”

In the evening, in despite of a threatening sky, Arthur and Beverly mounted their horses and galloped toward Richmond.  As they approached the city, the rain fell heavily and they sought shelter at a wayside tavern.  Observing the public room to be full, they passed into a private parlor and ordered some slight refreshment.  In the adjoining tap-room they could hear the voices of excited men, discussing some topic of absorbing interest.  Their anticipations were realized, for they quickly gathered from the tenor of the disjointed conversation that the bombardment of Fort Sumter had begun.

“I’ll bet my pile,” said a rough voice, “that the gridiron bunting won’t float another day in South Carolina.”

“I’ll go you halves on that, hoss, and you and I won’t grow greyer nor we be, before Old Virginny says ‘me too.’”

“Seth Rawbon, you’d better be packing your traps for Massachusetts.  She’ll want you afore long.”

“Boys,” ejaculated the last-mentioned personage, with an oath, “I left off being a Massachusetts man twelve years ago.  I’m with you, and you know it.  Let’s drink.  Boys, here’s to spunky little South Carolina; may she go in and win!  Stranger, what’ll you drink?”

“I will not drink,” replied a clear, manly voice, which had been silent till then.

“And why will you not drink?” rejoined the other, mocking the dignified and determined tone in which the invitation was refused.

“It is sufficient that I will not.”

“Mayhap you don’t like my sentiment?”

“Right.”

“Look you, Mr. Harold Hare, I know you well, and I think we’ll take you down from your high horse before you’re many hours older in these parts.  Boys, let’s make him drink to South Carolina.”