“Yes, now we’ll fix this will business, Captain Blair,” the big man answered cheerfully.  “When your mind’s relieved about your plunder you can rest easier and get well faster.”

The sweet, brilliant smile of the Southerner shone out, his arm drew the boy’s shoulder closer, and the President, with a pang, knew that his friend knew that he must die.

With direct, condensed question and clear answer the simple will was shortly drawn and the impromptu lawyer rose to take his leave.  But the wounded man put out his hand.

“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded, with the imperious, winning accent which was characteristic of both brothers.  The sudden, radiant smile broke again over the face, young, drawn with suffering, prophetic of close death.  “I like you,” he brought out frankly.  “I’ve never liked a stranger as much in such short order before.”

His head, fair as the boy’s, lay back on the pillows, locks of hair damp against the whiteness, the blue eyes shone like jewels from the colorless face, a weak arm stretched protectingly about the young brother who pressed against him.  There was so much courage, so much helplessness, so much pathos in the picture that the President’s great heart throbbed with a desire to comfort them.

“I want to talk to you about that man Lincoln, your namesake,” the prisoner’s deep, uncertain voice went on, trying pathetically to make conversation which might interest, might hold his guest.  The man who stood hesitating controlled a startled movement.  “I’m Southern to the core of me, and I believe with my soul in the cause I’ve fought for, the cause I’m—­” he stopped, and his hand caressed the boy’s shoulder.  “But that President of yours is a remarkable man.  He’s regarded as a red devil by most of us down home, you know,” and he laughed, “but I’ve admired him all along.  He’s inspired by principle, not by animosity, in this fight; he’s real and he’s powerful and”—­he lifted his head impetuously and his eyes flashed—­“and, by Jove, have you read his speech of yesterday in the papers?”

Lincoln gave him an odd look.  “No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

“Sit down,” Blair commanded.  “Don’t grudge a few minutes to a man in hard luck.  I want to tell you about that speech.  You’re not so busy but that you ought to know.”

“Well, yes,” said Lincoln, “perhaps I ought.”  He took out his watch and made a quick mental calculation.  “It’s only a question of going without my dinner, and the boy is dying,” he thought.  “If I can give him a little pleasure the dinner is a small matter.”  He spoke again.  “It’s the soldiers who are the busy men, not the lawyers, nowadays,” he said.  “I’ll be delighted to spend a half hour with you, Captain Blair, if I won’t tire you.”

“That’s good of you,” the young officer said, and a king on his throne could not have been gracious in a more lordly yet unconscious way.  “By the way, this great man isn’t any relation of yours, is he, Mr. Lincoln?”