Again a ringing step in the corridor and this time Lieutenant Harris came into the room, his hand going up in salute.  But his General was still looking out of the window, his eyes on a dead level.  There was a silence and then—­without turning around—­

“Well, Lieutenant, what is it?”

“A short conference, General, if you’ll grant it.  The case of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison.”  It was hard work to talk to one who kept his back turned and Harris was embarrassed.

The smoke from the General’s cigar still curled lazily upwards.

“Reprieve?” came the monosyllabic question.

Harris caught himself together and put all his feelings.

“No, General.  A pardon!”

At once Grant wheeled and stood gazing at him keenly.

“Pardon?” he said, and he advanced with deliberation to the desk where he stood with his eyes steady on Harris’ face.  “Lieutenant!  Do you want me to think you are out of your mind?”

Before Harris could reply Grant stopped him with a gesture and picked up a batch of papers which lay on the desk.

“The man has been given every chance.  He has been court-martialed—­and found guilty.”

He dropped the papers in the case back on the desk.  “And you—­his counsel—­having failed to prove him otherwise now come to me—­for pardon.”

He snapped his fingers.  “Lieutenant, you are wasting time.”  And he turned away, pausing for a moment to turn over a sheaf here and there on his desk and meditate their contents.  The incident of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has been disposed of and, in another moment would be forgotten.  It was now or never for Harris and he answered quickly.

“I hope not, sir.  Neither yours nor mine.”  And then, as the General looked up with some surprise at this retort.  “You have read the findings of the court?”

“Yes,” was the grim reply.  “And approve the sentence.  To-morrow he will be shot.”

“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Harris.  “Unless you intervene.”

At this curiously insistent plea for clemency the short, stocky bearded man who, to so few, had the bearing of a great general, faced Lieutenant Harris and gave him a look which made the young officer’s bravery falter for a long moment.

“I?” said the General, with a searching note in his voice which seemed to probe coldly and with deadly accuracy among the strenuous emotions in the young man’s mind.  “Harris—­you are an officer of promise.  Don’t cut that promise short.”  With a flick of his ashes to one side he turned away.  The cigar went back into the corner of his sardonic mouth.

Harris strode forward an impulsive step and threw out his hands.

“It is worth the risk.  When a man is condemned to die—­”

The General wheeled with more impatience than the Adjutant, Forbes, had seen him exhibit through many vexatious, worrying months.  His voice took on a rasping note.  He tapped the papers on the desk with grim significance.