It was a union of incongruous elements. Men
who had nothing in common were one in the spirit of faction; and all were
determined that the Orangeman, whose funeral was fixed for this memorable
Saturday, should be carried safely to his grave. Civic pride had almost
become civic fanaticism in Lebanon. One of the men beaten by Ingolby in
the recent struggle for control of the railways said to the others
shivering in the grey dawn: "They were bound to get him in the back.
They're dagos, the lot of 'em. Skunks are skunks, even when you skin
'em."
When, just before dawn, old Gabriel Druse issued from the house into
which he had carried Ingolby the night before, they questioned him
eagerly. He had been a figure apart from both Lebanon and Manitou, and
they did not regard him as a dago, particularly as it was more than
whispered that Ingolby "had a lien" on his daughter. In the grey light,
with his long grizzled beard and iron-grey, shaggy hair, Druse looked
like a mystic figure of the days when the gods moved among men like
mortals. His great height, vast proportions, and silent ways gave him a
place apart, and added to the superstitious feeling by which he was
surrounded.
"How is he?" they asked whisperingly, as they crowded round him.
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