Rivers said nothing of his acquaintance with the condemned man.  He too had reached the conviction, now made more definite, that needless pain for the old mother could be avoided by letting Peter die with the name he had assumed.

It was after twelve at night when the provost’s pass admitted him to a small wooden prison.  One candle dimly lighted the hut, where a manacled man crouched by a failing fire.  The soldier on guard passed out as the clergyman entered.  When the door closed behind him, Rivers said, “Peter.”

“My God!  Mr. Rivers.  They say I’ll be shot.  You won’t let them shoot me—­they can’t do it—­I don’t want to die.”

“I came here because Josiah recognized you and brought me.”

“He must have told on me.”

“Told what?  He did not tell anything.  Now listen to me.  You are certain to be shot at seven to-morrow morning.  I have asked for delay—­none will be given.  I come only to entreat you to make your peace with God—­to tell you that you have but these few hours in which to repent.  Let me pray with you—­for you.  There is nothing else I can do for you; I have tried and failed.  Indeed I tried most earnestly.”

“You can help if you will!  You were always against me.  You can telegraph Colonel Penhallow.  He will answer—­he won’t let them shoot me.”

Rivers who stood over the crouched figure laid a hand on his shoulder.  “If he were here he could do nothing.  And even if I did telegraph him, he is in no condition to answer.  He was wounded at Gettysburg and his mind is clouded.  It would only trouble him and your mother, and not help you.  Your mother would hear, and you should at least have the manliness to accept in silence what you have earned.”

“But it’s my life—­my life—­I can’t die.”  Rivers was silent.  “You won’t telegraph?”

“No.  It is useless.”

“But you might do something—­you’re cruel.  I am innocent.  God let me be born of a drunken father—­I had to drink too—­I had to.  The Squire wouldn’t give me work—­no one helped me.  I enlisted in a New York regiment.  I got drunk and ran away and enlisted in the 71st Pennsylvania.  I stole chickens, and near to the North Anna I was cruelly punished.  Then the Rebs caught me.  I had to enlist.  Oh, Lord!  I am unfortunate.  If I only could have a little whisky.”

Mark Rivers for a moment barren of answer was sure that as usual Peter was lying and without any of his old cunning.

“Peter, this story does not help you.  You are about to die, and no one—­can help you—­I have tried in vain—­nothing can save you.  Why at a time so solemn as this do you lie to me?  Why did you desert? and for stealing chickens? nonsense!”

“Well, then, it was about a woman.  Josiah knows—­he saw it all.  I didn’t desert—­I was tied to a tree—­he could clear me.  They left me tied.  I had to enlist; I had to!”

“A woman!” Rivers understood.  “If he were to tell, it would only make your case worse.  Oh, Peter, let me pray for you.”