wars ... for nation shall rise against nation and kingdom against
kingdom.'"

In San Francisco the priest of Japan, abroad to study strange lands, sat
in his lacquer chair, with face like soft-yellow and wrinkled parchment.
Slowly he wrote in a great and golden book: "I have been strangely
bidden to the Val d' Osta, where one of those religious cults that swarm
here will welcome a prophet. I shall go and report to Kioto."

So in the dim waning of the day before Christmas three bishops met in
Valdosta and saw its mills and storehouses, its wide-throated and sandy
streets, in the mellow glow of a crimson sun. The governor glared
anxiously up the street as he helped the bishop of New York into his car
and welcomed him graciously.

"I am troubled," said the governor, "about the niggers. They are acting
queerly. I'm not certain but Fleming is back of it."

"Fleming?"

"Yes! He's running against me next term for governor; he's a firebrand;
wants niggers to vote and all that--pardon me a moment, there's a darky
I know--" and he hurried to the black bishop, who had just descended
from the "Jim-Crow" car, and clasped his hand cordially. They talked in
whispers. "Search diligently," said the governor in parting, "and bring
me word again." Then returning to his guest, "You will excuse me, won't
you?" he asked, "but I am sorely troubled! I never saw niggers act so.
They're leaving by the hundreds and those who stay are getting impudent!
They seem to be expecting something. What's the crowd, Jim?"