Slapping his huge hands on his knees, and leaning far forward until he seemed to plunge his flaming beard, like a firebrand, into the controversy, he said grimly,-- "Well, I kin tell you, gen'l'men, THIS.

It ain't goin' to be no matter wot's the POLITICAL FEELING here or thar--it ain't goin' to be no matter wot's the State's rights and wot's Fed'ral rights--it ain't goin' to be no question whether the gov'ment's got the right to relieve its own soldiers that those Secesh is besieging in Fort Sumter or whether they haven't--but the first gun that's fired at the flag blows the chains off every d--n nigger south of Mason and Dixon's line! You hear me! I'm shoutin'! And whether you call yourselves 'Secesh' or 'Union' or 'Copperhead' or 'Peace men,' you've got to face it!" There was an angry start in one or two of the seats; one man caught at the swinging side-strap and half rose, a husky voice began, "It's a d----d"-- and then all as suddenly subsided.

Every eye was turned to an insignificant figure in the back seat.

It was a woman, holding a child on her lap, and gazing out of the window with her sex's profound unconcern in politics.

Clarence understood the rude chivalry of the road well enough to comprehend that this unconscious but omnipotent figure had more than once that day controlled the passions of the disputants.
They dropped back weakly to their seats, and their mutterings rolled off in the rattle of the wheels.