“Mr. Morrison,” he said, in his distinct, even tones.  “Your friend and counsel, Lieutenant Harris, has applied to me for your pardon!”

“Pardon?” cried Morrison, springing to his feet with an exclamation of amazement.

“Exactly,” was the crisp response.  “It comes from him—­not from you.  But still, as an interested party, have you anything to say in your own behalf?”

The Union officer stared at his general for a moment without replying.  Yes, there were many things that might be said—­all of them honest arguments in his own behalf, all of them weighted with Right and Humanity but none of them worth putting into words in the face of this deadly machine of war, this grim, austere, unyielding tribunal.  He wavered for a moment on his feet as a terrible wave of despair surged over him, then made a faint gesture of negation.

“I have nothing to say, sir.”

“Captain Cary!” ordered the General and, as Cary rose unsteadily to his feet, “No.  Keep your seat, sir; you are wounded.  Is it true—­as I learn from this report—­that during a skirmish a week ago you helped defend the Union colors against your own people?”

Cary shot up from his chair with a fiery rush of anger.

“I?  No, sir! I defended the man—­not the soldier, or his flag!”

“Ah!” ejaculated the General, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a cloud of smoke in surprise.  “You draw a rather fine distinction, Captain.  You saved the colors—­but you failed to save the man! You had better have let him die—­as an honorable soldier.”

There was silence for a moment, and the General asked:  “Is it true that you were actuated by a debt of gratitude?”

“Yes,” answered the Southerner, throwing back his head.  “And a greater debt than I can ever hope to pay.  His mercy to—­my little girl.”

Without relaxing for a moment his grip on the points of the case, no matter what human elements might be drawn into it, the General instantly rose and shot out an accusing forefinger at the Confederate.

“And the pass he gave—­to you!”

Their eyes clashed but the Southerner lowered his own not a whit and backed them, furthermore, with honest anger.

“To her!” he answered, and drove the reply home with clenched jaws.

The General relaxed—­and smiled.

“Another fine distinction,” he said, resuming his seat.  He knocked the ashes from his cigar and presently looked up with another one of those terribly vital questions which came so simply from his lips.  “Did you ever penetrate the Federal lines by means of a uniform—­of blue?”

The Confederate drew back as he felt the assault on his rights as a soldier.

“As to that, General Grant, there is—­”

“Answer me!” came the sharp command. “‘Yes’ or ’No’!”

“One moment, General,” interrupted Harris, with a lawyer’s quick objection.  “If—­”