They retired to “the preachers’ tent,” and the stranger said: 

“My name is Jackson—­Colonel Jackson, of the United States Army.  I have a disagreeable duty to perform.  By order of General McDowell, I am to place you under arrest, and take you to San Francisco.”

“Can you wait until I preach my sermon?” asked the Bishop, good-naturedly; “the people expect it, and I don’t want to disappoint them if it can be helped.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Well, I am a little uncertain when I get started, but I will try not to be too long.”

“Very well; go on with your sermon, and if you have no objection I will be one of your hearers.”

The secret was known only to the Bishop and his captor.  The sermon was one of his best—­the vast crowd of people were mightily moved, and the Colonel’s eyes were not dry when it closed.  After a prayer, and a song, and a collection, the Bishop stood up again before the people, and said: 

“I have just received a message which makes it necessary for me to return to San Francisco immediately.  I am sorry that I cannot remain longer, and participate with you in the hallowed enjoyments of the occasion.  The blessing of God be with you, my brethren and sisters.”

His manner was so bland, and his tone so serene, that nobody had the faintest suspicion as to what it was that called him away so suddenly.  When he drove off with the stranger, the popular surmise was that it was a wedding or a funeral that called for such haste.  These are two events in human life that admit of no delays:  people must be buried, and they will be married.

The Bishop reported to General Mason, Provost-marshal General, and was told to hold himself as in duress until further orders, and to be ready to appear at headquarters at short notice when called for.  He was put on parole, as it were.  He came down to San Jose and stirred my congregation with several of his powerful discourses.  In the meantime the arrest had gotten into the newspapers.  Nothing that happens escapes the California journalists, and they have even been known to get hold of things that never happened at all.  It seems that someone in the shape of a man had made an affidavit that Bishop Kavanaugh had come to the Pacific Coast as a secret agent of the Southern Confederacy, to intrigue and recruit in its interest!  Five minutes’ inquiry would have satisfied General McDowell of the silliness of such a charge—­but it was in war times, and he did not stop to make the inquiry.  In Kentucky the good old Bishop had the freedom of the whole land, coming and going without hinderance; but the fact was, he had not been within the Confederate lines since the war began.  To make such an accusation against him was the climax of absurdity.

About three weeks after the date of his arrest, I was with the Bishop one morning on our way to Judge Moore’s beautiful country-seat, near San Jose, situated on the far-famed Alameda.  The carriage was driven by a black man named Henry.  Passing the post-office, I found, addressed to the Bishop in my care, a huge document bearing the official stamp of the provost-marshal’s office, San Francisco.  He opened and read it as we drove slowly along, and as he did so he brightened up, and turning to Henry, said: