“We’ll try it, comrades, to-night,” he said aloud.

“So we will,” they answered with determination.

A man came staggering towards them, gesticulating wildly and swearing horrible oaths.

“He is crazed with hunger, poor fellow,” remarked Harold.

Duncan was gazing steadily at the man who had now sunk panting upon the ground, exhausted by his own violence.  Evidently he had once possessed more than an ordinary share of physical beauty, but vice and evil passions had set their stamp upon his features, and famine had done its ghastly work; he was but a wreck of his former self.

“Where have I seen that face?” murmured Harry, unconsciously thinking aloud.

“In the rogues’ gallery, perhaps.  Tom Jackson is his name, or one of his names; for he has several aliases, I’m told,” remarked some one standing near.

“Yes, he’s the very man!” exclaimed Harry.  “I have studied his photograph and recognize him fully, in spite of famine’s ravages.  The wretch! he deserves all he suffers:  and yet I pity him.”

“What! the would-be assassin of Viamede?” and Harold started to his feet, the hot blood dyeing his thin cheeks.

“The same.  You feel like lynching him on the spot; and no wonder.  But refrain; they would bid you, and he is already suffering a worse fate than any you could mete out to him.”

“God forgive me!” groaned Harold, dropping down again and hiding his face in his hands, “I believe there was murder in my heart.”

“The story? what was it?” asked Jones.  “Tell it, Duncan; anything to help us to a moment’s forgetfulness.”

The others joined in the request, and Duncan gave the full particulars of the several attempts Jackson had made upon the lives of Mr. Travilla and Elsie.

Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest listened with keen interest.

“The fellow richly deserves lynching,” was the unanimous verdict, “but, as you say, is already suffering a far worse fate.”

“And yet no worse than that of thousands of innocent men,” remarked Jones bitterly.  “Where’s the justice of it?”

“Do you expect even-handed justice here?” inquired another.

“Perhaps he may be no worse in the sight of God, than some of the rest of us,” said Harold, in low, grave tones; “we do not know what evil influences may have surrounded him from his very birth, or whether, exposed to the same, we would have turned out any better.”

“I’m perishing with thirst,” said Jones, “and must try pushing through that crowd about the spring.”

He wandered off and the group scattered, leaving Harold and Duncan alone together.

The two had a long talk:  of home, common friends and acquaintance; of the war, what this or that Federal force was probably now attempting; what future movements were likely to be made, and how the contest would end; neither doubting the final triumph of the government.