“Mr. Yankee,” she asked, and looked up into his face, “are you goin’ to let Daddy come to Richmon’, too?”

Morrison withdrew his hand from hers—­withdrew it sharply—­flung himself into a seat beside the table, and began to scribble on the back of Virgie’s rumpled pass; while the child stood watching, trusting, with the simple trust of her little mother-heart.

In a moment or two, the troopers came hurrying in, with Corporal Dudley in the lead.  He stood at attention, saluted his superior, and made his report of failure in the search.

“Nothing sir.  No tracks around the spring, and no traces of the fellow anywhere; but—­” He stopped.  His keen eyes marked the changed position of the table and followed upward.  He saw the outlines of the scuttle above his head, and smiled.  “But I’m glad to see that you’ve had better luck yourself.”

“Yes, Corporal,” said Morrison, with a sharp return of his military tone, “I think I’ve found the fox’s hole at last.”  He rose and gave his orders briskly.  “Push that table forward!—­there!—­below the trap!  Two of you get on it!” He turned to the Corporal, while he himself climbed up and stood beside his men.  “Light that candle and pass it up to me!” The orders were obeyed.  “Now, boys, boost me!—­and we’ll have him out.”

They raised him, till he pushed the trap aside and thrust his head and shoulders through the opening.  From below they could see him as he waved the lighted candle to and fro, and presently they heard his voice, that sounded deep and muffled in the shallow loft: 

“All right, boys!  You can let me down.”

He slid to the table and sprang lightly to the floor, facing his troopers with a smile, half-humorous, half in seeming disappointment, as he glanced at Virgie.

“I’m afraid the little rebel’s right again. He isn’t there!”

“Oh!” cried Virgie, then clapped her hands across her mouth, while the troopers slowly looked from her into the level eyes of their commanding officer.  He stood before them, straight and tall, a soldier, every inch of him; and they knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison was lying like a gentleman.  They knew that their chief was staking the name and title of an honorable soldier against the higher, grander title of “a man.”

Only Corporal Dudley stood disconcerted at the startling statement, but as there was no help for it he could only strangle an oath and give the order to pass out.

“’Tention!  Right face!  Forward!  March!”

They mounted and rode a rod or two away, awaiting orders; while Morrison stood silently and watched them go.  He, too—­like Virgie—­had wrestled with a problem, and it stirred him to the depths.  As a trooper must obey, so also must an officer obey a higher will; yes, even as a slave in iron manacles.  The master of war had made his laws; and a servant broke them, knowingly.  A captured scout was a prisoner, no more; a spy must hang, or fall before the volley of a firing squad.  No matter for his bravery; no matter for the faithful service to his cause, the man must die!  The glory was for another; for one who waved a flag on the spine of a bloody trench; a trench which his brothers stormed—­and gave the blood.  No matter that a spy had made this triumph possible.  He had worn a uniform which was not his own—­and the dog must die!