There was a silence.  No one moved.  Outside in the trees and bushes the song the summer insects were singing suddenly burst upon, their ears and the myriad noises of the camp, hitherto unnoticed, became a veritable clamor, so complete was the stillness in the room.  Everyone except, perhaps, the child herself realized the vital importance of her answer and now that it had been given the crisis had passed.  The Littlest Rebel had put an end to questioning.  An audible sigh went up from everyone except the man behind the desk.

This one turned his head slowly towards the Confederate prisoner.

“Captain Cary, is this true?”

“Yes, General,” came the straightforward answer.  “I went to your nearest post with a flag of truce and asked permission to go to my dead wife.  I was refused.  I went without permission.”

General Grant rose to his feet.  Centering the other’s eyes with his own he spoke to him as one officer speaks to another when he expects the truth and nothing but the truth.

“And you give me your word, as a soldier and a gentleman, that once—­once only—­you wore a Federal uniform and that because of the burial of your wife?”

“I do,” answered Herbert Cary, a rebel to the last.  “And that was the only cause in heaven or hell that could have induced me to wear it!”

For a moment the Commander of the Army of the Potomac surveyed the still defiant prisoner, then turned his back and walked to the window where he tossed away a much chewed cigar, meantime thinking out his last analysis.

Here was a man who had been hunted tirelessly month after month as a rebel spy.  It was true that he was a spy and true that he had worn a uniform of blue.  Yet the fact had been established—­by the spotless honesty of a little child—­that he had worn the uniform only so that he might reach his home and bury his dead.  And—­went on the cool, quiet mind—­since the man was not a spy how could a Union officer be executed for assisting a spy to escape?

Coming back to his desk again the General picked out another smoke, felt of it thoughtfully, sniffed at it, then raised his quiet eyes.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison,” he said in clear, incisive tones, “go back to your command!”

Five words.  Five short, plain words, yet they made all the difference between a firing squad and a chance at life again.  There was a silence—­then a gasp from Morrison’s dry throat.  At the sound of his title—­at the sound of that blessed order which, by right of supreme power, instantly restored him to his rank, the Union officer leaped to his feet with a cry of joy.  But it was not even for those around him in that little room to know the wonderful vista of happiness which opened up again before the eyes which only a moment ago had been doomed to close in the sleep of a disgraceful death.

The General’s hand went up in a gesture which checked his gratitude.