Elliott Harding was coming home—home to Dorothy, and joy was so strong within him that it almost touched the edge of tears. The rising sun was trying hard to struggle out of a bluish haze, as he stepped from the train at Georgetown. Nodding to a negro driver, he walked to the hack, saying, “Drive me to my office, first, then you may take me out to Mr. Carr’s.”
The negro cast a glance behind, and stammered excitedly, as he mounted to the seat:
“Boss, dey’s erbout to mob yo’ man—de moonshiner dat you like ter got hung, I reck’n. Dey’s done at de jail by now.”
A mob! A multitude in passion! Anticipation of the consequences flashed all too plainly upon Elliott Harding. A thrill shot through him! He leaped into the back, and commanded:
“Drive to the jail with all your might.”
The negro’s white eyeballs rolled with swift alarm. He seized the lines, laid on the whip and shouted:
“Git up, git up.”
The horses dashed forward and turned down the main street, the cumbrous wheels tearing up the mud and flinging it to right and left.
Elliott’s breath fluttered in his throat. A fellow being—the man for whose conviction he had pleaded was in personal peril. In law he was against this poor wretch; in humanity he was for him—humanity has no distinctions. He saw but the slaughter!—the struggle!—the united forces on the one side; the lone desperation on the other.
The good horses were doing their best now, and with a final lurch and swing were pulling up at the jail. Elliott bounded to his feet, rushed into the stirring crowd, and pushed through the circle that was moving toward the door.
Low mutterings, fierce as the roar of a wounded lion, went forth as one man threw up his clinched hand, from which dangled a rope. As if impelled by a single spirit, they raged against the jail doors, clamoring at the oak.
“Hang him! hang him! Give us the keys!”
The terror stricken criminal heard and cowered in his cell, his giant muscles quivering in tense knots. He gathered himself for the last struggle with a dogged fierceness born of savage courage.
“Break down the doors!”
At this command there was a crash and commotion below—and then silence. Suddenly a man appeared facing them. He held up his hand, and all recognized that it was Elliott Harding.
“Fellow citizens,” he cried, his voice ringing out over the gathering. “Don’t do this thing! This man will die by the hands of the law. Don’t stain yours!”
Directly there was a universal hush. The crowd stood like stone before the calm courage of this remarkable arraignment. The men doubting their senses, gazed at each other curiously, then they looked at Elliott again. With indescribable speed a spirit flew from mind to mind, seizing them all alike. Then without a word, silently, and as though abashed, they turned away. Elliott was left alone, surprised at his sudden triumph, gazing with a curious stare at the frowning walls of the dingy jail.