s the surface of the red brick, long unpainted,
had scaled off a little more here and there. There might have been a
slight accretion of the moss and lichen on the shingled roof. But the
tall tower, with its four-faced clock, rose as majestically and
uncompromisingly as though the land had never been subjugated. Was it
so irreconcilable, Warwick wondered, as still to peal out the curfew
bell, which at nine o'clock at night had clamorously warned all
negroes, slave or free, that it was unlawful for them to be abroad
after that hour, under penalty of imprisonment or whipping? Was the
old constable, whose chief business it had been to ring the bell, still
alive and exercising the functions of his office, and had age lessened
or increased the number of times that obliging citizens performed this
duty for him during his temporary absences in the company of convivial
spirits? A few moments later, Warwick saw a colored policeman in the
old constable's place--a stronger reminder than even the burned
buildings that war had left its mark upon the old town, with which Time
had dealt so tenderly.

The lower story of the market-house was open on all four of its sides
to the public square. Warwick passed through one of the wide brick
arches and traversed the building with a leisurely step. He looked in
vain into the stalls for the butcher who had sold fresh meat twice a
week, on market days, and he felt a genuine thrill of pleasure when he
recognized the red bandana turban of old Aunt Lyddy, the ancient negro
woman who had sold him gingerbread and fried fish, and told him weird
tales of witchcraft and conjuration, in the old days when, as an idle
boy, he had loafed about the market-house. He did not speak to her,
however, or give her any sign of recognition. He threw a glance toward
a certain corner where steps led to the town hall above. On this
stairway he had once seen a manacled free negro shot while being taken
upstairs for examination under a criminal charge. Warwick recalled
vividly how the shot had rung out. He could see again the livid look
of terror on the victim's face, the gathering crowd, the resulting
confusion. The murderer, he recalled, had been tried and sentenced to
imprisonment for life, but was pardoned by a merciful governor after
serving a year of his sentence. As Warwick was neither a prophet nor
the son of a prophet, he could not foresee that, thirty years later,
even this would seem an excessive pu