on all four of its sides to the public square.
Warwick passed through one of the wide brick arches
and traversed the building with a leisurely step.
He looked in vain into the stalls for the butcher
who had sold fresh meat twice a week, on market
days, and he felt a genuine thrill of pleasure when
he recognized the red bandana turban of old
Aunt Lyddy, the ancient negro woman who had
sold him gingerbread and fried fish, and told him
weird tales of witchcraft and conjuration, in the
old days when, as an idle boy, he had loafed about
the market-house. He did not speak to her, however,
or give her any sign of recognition. He threw a
glance toward a certain corner where steps led to
the town hall above. On this stairway he had
once seen a manacled free negro shot while being
taken upstairs for examination under a criminal
charge. Warwick recalled vividly how the shot
had rung out. He could see again the livid look
of terror on the victim's face, the gathering crowd,
the resulting confusion. The murderer, he recalled,
had been tried and sentenced to imprisonment
for life, but was pardoned by a merciful
governor after serving a year of his sentence. As
Warwick was neither a prophet nor the son of a
prophet, he could not foresee that, thirty years
later, even this would seem an excessive punishment
for so slight a misdemeanor.

Leaving the market-house, Warwick turned to