David Terry's ball cuts the heart-strings of a man who had been his
loving political brother. His personal friend once and a gallant
comrade. Broderick's blood marks the fatal turning-off of the
Northern Democrats from their Southern brothers. As Terry lowers
his pistol, looking unpityingly at the fallen giant, he does not
realize he has cut the cords tying the West to the South. It was
a fatal deed, this brother's murder. It was the mistake of a life,
hitherto high in purpose. The implacable Terry would have shuddered
could he have looked over the veiled mysteries of thirty years
to come. It was beyond human ken. Even he might have blenched at
the strange life-path fate would lead him over. Over battle-fields
where the Southern Cross rises and falls like Mokanna's banner, back
across deserts, to die under the deadly aim of an obscure minion
of the government he sought to pull down. After thirty years, David
S. Terry, judge, general, and champion of the South, was destined
to die at the feet of his brother-judge, whose pathway inclined
Northwardly from that ill-starred moment.
Maxime Valois saw in the monster memorial meeting on the plaza,
that the cause of the South was doomed in the West.
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