Captain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard.  He passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to point.  He held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves.  There was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that it reflected was steady and true.  He stooped and with his left hand tore away the dying man’s shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword just over the heart.  This time he did not withdraw his eyes.  Grasping the hilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength and weight.  The blade sank into the man’s body—­through his body into the earth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work.  The dying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm across his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of the hand visibly whitened.  By a violent but vain effort to withdraw the blade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuously down into the deranged clothing.  At that moment three men stepped silently forward from behind the clump of young trees which had concealed their approach.  Two were hospital attendants and carried a stretcher.

The third was Major Creede Halcrow.

PARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER

“Prisoner, what is your name?”

“As I am to lose it at daylight to-morrow morning it is hardly worth while concealing it.  Parker Adderson.”

“Your rank?”

“A somewhat humble one; commissioned officers are too precious to be risked in the perilous business of a spy.  I am a sergeant.”

“Of what regiment?”

“You must excuse me; my answer might, for anything I know, give you an idea of whose forces are in your front.  Such knowledge as that is what I came into your lines to obtain, not to impart.”

“You are not without wit.”

“If you have the patience to wait you will find me dull enough to-morrow.”

“How do you know that you are to die to-morrow morning?”

“Among spies captured by night that is the custom.  It is one of the nice observances of the profession.”

The general so far laid aside the dignity appropriate to a Confederate officer of high rank and wide renown as to smile.  But no one in his power and out of his favor would have drawn any happy augury from that outward and visible sign of approval.  It was neither genial nor infectious; it did not communicate itself to the other persons exposed to it—­the caught spy who had provoked it and the armed guard who had brought him into the tent and now stood a little apart, watching his prisoner in the yellow candle-light.  It was no part of that warrior’s duty to smile; he had been detailed for another purpose.  The conversation was resumed; it was in character a trial for a capital offense.

“You admit, then, that you are a spy—­that you came into my camp, disguised as you are in the uniform of a Confederate soldier, to obtain information secretly regarding the numbers and disposition of my troops.”