“Yes, General,” said Harris, with a smile, for Unc’ Billy’s persistency and his troubles were known to everyone he met.

“Good!  It’s about time we got even him,” the General remarked sardonically.  “Have him in!  See to it, Forbes.”  And again he bent over his map.

Forbes, passing out again, paused as Harris gestured.

“You’ll find him somewhere near the guard house,” the Lieutenant said with a flicker of a, smile.  “The old man has been regularly camping out there since he learned that his master was inside.”

A minute passed and then, from a short distance away, came the sound of a squad of soldiers marching.  In single file, with the two prisoners in line, the squad came into the hallway and stopped at the doorway.

“Halt!  Left face!  Order arms!  Prisoners file out!” The two prisoners stepped forward and entered the room.

Thanks to expert surgical work since he entered Union lines, Herbert Cary’s wounds had healed quickly while plenty of good food had done the rest.  His eyes may not have been bright with hope but at least they were clear with health and his straight back and squared shoulders showed that the man’s fighting spirit had not left him even under the adverse decision of a court-martial.

Of the two, Morrison seemed the graver and quieter.  With his sword taken from him and his shoulder straps ripped off the man who had been a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Army of the Potomac only the day before stood looking at his general without the slightest hope for clemency.  Yet, with all the sad, quiet look of resignation in his eyes, behind them glowed a wonderful light—­the light of self-sacrifice.  For he had chosen to put on the tender glove of humanity and grip hands with the mailed gauntlet of war, and though he had been crushed yet even in this bitter hour they could not take from him the knowledge that the Commander in Chief of all spiritual armies would stand forever on his side.  They could take his sword and shoulder straps but they could not rob him of that divine consolation.

And so the two stood with their eyes steady on the General—­the Confederate, hard and defiant—­the Union officer with a strange, sad glow on his face.

But the General paid them no attention.  He was still studying the map laid out before him on his desk, the cigar in the corner of his mouth drawing one side of his face into harsh, deep lines.  As a matter of fact, Ulysses Simpson Grant was very far removed from harshness—­he was simply and solely efficiency personified.  When nothing was to be said General Grant said nothing.  To do otherwise was waste.

Presently he looked up and saw that while Forbes had given the two prisoners chairs directly in front of his desk one of the important factors in the business in hand had not been produced.

“Well, Forbes, well?  Where is the negro?” He asked crisply.  “Bring him in!  Bring him in!”