George bristled. "Why not? Aren't you supposed to represent your Republican constituents?"

"Represent, yes. Obey, no. My conscience is my sole guide." He laid a hand on George's shoulder and gazed down; the mere act of inclining his head was somehow condescending. "I don't want to be rude, George. I know you donate heavily to the state and national organizations. I'm aware of your fine war record. Unfortunately, none of that changes my view about the Southern slavocracy. Those who belong to that class, and all who support them, are traitors to our nation. They presently reside not in sovereign states, but in conquered provinces. They deserve full punishment."

In the eyes beneath the overhanging brows, George saw the light of true belief, holy war.

Cynics often cited sordid reasons for that fanaticism. They linked Stevens's championship of Negro rights with his house­keeper in Lancaster and Washington, Mrs. Lydia Smith, a handsome widow, and a mulatto. They linked the burning of his iron works in Chambersburg by Jubal Early's soldiers with his hatred of all things Southern. George didn't entirely believe the explanations; he considered Stevens an honest idealist, though an extreme one. It had never surprised him that Stevens and his sister Virgilia Hazard were close friends.

Still, the congressman by no means represented all of Republican opinion. Again sharply, George said, "I thought the executive branch was in charge of reconstructing the South."

"No, sir. That's the prerogative of the Congress. Mr. Johnson was a fool to announce his intention to issue executive orders. Doing so has generated great enmity among my colleagues, and you may be assured that when we reconvene, we will undo his mischief. Congress will not have its rights usurped." Stevens rapped the ferrule of his cane on the ground. "I will not have it."