“Thank you, Morrison,” said the prisoner simply.  “If it wasn’t war times—­”

He choked, and said no more; yet silence proved more eloquent than human speech.  They were men—­brave men—­and both were grateful; the one, because an enemy would keep his unspoken word; the other, because a doomed man understood.

Cary opened the door of his daughter’s room and called to her.  She came in quickly, a question in her big brown eyes.

“Daddy,” she said, “you talked a mighty long time.  It was a heap more than jus’ a minute.”

“Was it?” he asked, and forced a smile.  “Well, you see, we had a lot to say.”  He seated himself and, drawing her between his knees, took both her hands.  “Now listen, honey; I’m going away with this gentleman, and—­” He stopped as she looked up doubtfully; then added a dash of gayety to his tender tone:  “Oh, but he invited me.  And think!  He’s coming back for you—­to-day—­to send you up to Richmond.  Now, isn’t that just fine?”

Virgie looked slowly from her father to the Union soldier, who stood with downcast eyes, his back to them.

“Daddy,” she whispered, “he’s a right good Yankee—­isn’t he?”

“Yes, dear,” her father murmured sadly, and in yearning love for the baby he must leave behind; “yes—­he’s mighty good!”

He knelt and folded her in his arms, kissing her, over and over, while his hand went fluttering about her soft brown throat; then he wrenched himself away, but stood for a lingering instant more, his hands outstretched, atremble for a last and lingering touch, his heart a racing protest at the parting he must speak.

“Cary!”

It was Morrison who spoke, in mercy for the man; and once more Cary understood.  He turned to cross the broken door; to face a firing squad in the hot, brown woods; to cross the gulf which stretched beyond the rumble of the guns and the snarling lip of war.  But even as he turned, a baby’s voice called out, in cheerful parting, which he himself had failed to speak: 

“Good-by, Daddy-man.  I’ll see you up in Richmon’.”

The eyes of the two men met and held, in the hardest moment of it all; for well they knew this hopeful prophecy could never be fulfilled.  Morrison sighed and moved toward the door; but, from its threshold, he could see his troopers returning at a trot across the fields.

“Wait,” he said to Cary; “I’d rather my men shouldn’t know I’ve talked with you.”  He pointed to the scuttle in the ceiling.  “Would you mind if I asked you to go back again?  Hurry!  They are coming.”

The captured scout saluted, crossed to the ladder, and began to mount.  At the top he paused to smile and blow a kiss to Virgie, then disappeared, drew up the ladder after him, and closed the trap.

The captor stood in silence, waiting for his men; yet, while he stood, the little rebel pattered to his side, slipping her hand in his confidingly.