two main streets, a "jog" at each street corner
left around the market-house a little public square,
which at this hour was well occupied by carts and
wagons from the country and empty drays awaiting
hire. Warwick was unable to perceive much
change in the market-house. Perhaps 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