The deep boom of the Cathedral bell, far below them,
beats midnight as the two friends sit plotting treason.
There is something mystical in the exact hour of midnight. The rich
note startles Hardin. Cold, haughty, crafty, and able, his devotion
to the South is that of the highest moral courage. It is not the
exultation which culminates rashly on the battle-field. These lurid
scenes are for younger heroes.
His necessary presence in the West, his age and rank, make him
invaluable, out of harness. His scheming brain is needed, not his
ready sword.
He pours out a glass of brandy, saying, "Valois, tell me of our
prospects here. You know the interior as well as any man in the
State."
Maxime unburdens his mind. "Judge, I fear we are in danger of losing
this coast. I have looked over the social forces of the State. The
miners represent no principle. They will cut no figure on either
side. They would not be amenable to discipline. The Mexicans
certainly will not sympathize with us. We are regarded as the old
government party. The Black Republicans are the 'liberals.' The
natives have lost all, under us. We will find them fierce enemies.
We cannot undo the treatment of the Dons." Hardin gravely assents.
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