Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison looked across the table at his prisoner, and answered gravely, yet with a touch of sternness in his military tone: 

“You are more than a scout, Cary.  You’ve carried dispatches, and intercepted ours; for both of which, if taken, you would have been a prisoner of war, no more.  But you’ve entered our lines—­not in a uniform of gray, but blue—­and you’ve cost us the loss of two important battles.”

“And had you done the same,” returned the Southerner, “for you it would have meant promotion.  I’ve served my cause as best I could; in the saddle or the rifle pit; in the woods, or creeping through your lines.  If I’ve cost you a battle, my life is a puny price to pay, and I’d pay it without a sigh.”  He paused and sank into his seat.  “For myself, I don’t care much.  I’m worn out, anyway; and I only wanted to get my little girl to Richmond.”  At the thought of Virgie his anger returned to him, and he once more staggered to his feet.

“But you,” he accused, “you’ve beaten a baby by the force of arms!  You’ve run me to earth—­and you’ve blocked her chance!  It’s Virgie you are fighting now—­not me—­yes, just as if you rode her down with a troop of horse!  A fine thing, Colonel!  For you, a brevet!  For me, a firing squad!  Well, call in your men and get it over!” Again he smiled; a grim, slow smile of bitterness and scorn.  “Bravo, Colonel Morrison!  Bravo!  You add one other glory to your conquering sword—­and, besides, you’ll receive five hundred dollars in reward!”

The Northerner turned upon him fiercely, goaded at last to the breaking-point in a struggle as black and awful as the struggle of his brother-foe.

“Stop it, man!” he cried.  “I order you to stop!  It’s duty!—­not a miserable reward!” His cheeks were flaming; his muscles quivered, and his fists were clenched.  “Do you actually suppose,” he asked, “that I’m proud of this?  Do you think I’m wringing blood out of your heart and mine—­for money?”

They faced each other, two crouching, snarling animals, the raw, primeval passions of their hearts released, each seeing through a mist of red; a mist that had risen up to roll across a mighty land and plunge its noblest sons into a bloody ruck of war.

They faced each other, silently; then slowly the features of the Southerner relaxed.  His bitterness was laid aside.  He spoke, in the soft, slow accent of his people—­an accent so impossible to a trick of print or pen.

“I’m glad you feel that way; and maybe, after all, you’re doing what you think is right.  Yes—­and I know it’s hard.”  He stopped, then stepped a little nearer, timidly, as Virgie might have done.  “Colonel,” he said, scarce audibly, “I ask you just one thing; not for myself, but for her—­for Virgie.  Get the poor little tad through your lines, will you?—­and—­and don’t let her know—­about me.”

His captor did not answer him in words, because of the pain that took him by the throat; but his hand went out, till it reached another hand that gripped it gratefully.