“The next time you are forced to decide between military duty and humanity—­think twice!”

He turned to his desk and took up a small piece of paper, crumpled and torn.

“Captain Cary,” he said, “I sincerely regret that I cannot honor the pass as given you by Colonel Morrison,” and he turned the paper over, “but I do honor the pass of your General—­R.E.  Lee.”

He folded the paper and held it out to Cary who came forward as if in a dream.  Then the General turned his back again and began to rummage on his desk.  The incident was closed.

But there was a rush of bare, childish feet sand before he could escape Virgie’s brown little arms were round him and her dimpled chin was pressed against his waist.

The General made no effort to release himself but looked down on her with a softer light in his face than any of his men had seen there in many months.

“And as for you, young lady, the next time you pervert my officers and upset the discipline of the Federal Army—­well, I don’t know what I’ll do with you.”

He looked down into her face and read there a wistful feminine appeal for outward and visible reconciliation.

“Oh, well,” he said with mock resignation, “I suppose I’ve got to do it,” and he stooped and kissed her.  Then he took up his campaign hat and walked towards the door.

Behind him the child in her tattered dress and bare brown legs stood still and threw out her arms to him in a last soft-voiced good-by.

“Thank you, Gen’ral,” called the Littlest Rebel, with the light of heaven in her eyes.  “Thank you for Daddy and Colonel Morrison and me.  You’re another mighty good damn Yankee!”

And then, with a cry of surpassing joy and love, she rushed back to where the two men waited for her on their knees.

CHAPTER X

In the shade of a fringe of trees that edged the river bank a troop of cavalry was drawn up in one long, thin line.  Knee to knee, the silent, blue-coated riders sat, waiting, waiting—­not for a charge upon the enemy, or orders for a foray through an already harried land.  They waited for a leader—­a man who had led them through the heat and cold, through peaceful valleys and the bloody ruck of battle; a man whom they loved and trusted, fearing him only when they shirked a duty or disobeyed the iron laws of war.

This man had been taken from them, himself a servant who had disobeyed these laws, his sword dishonored, his shoulder straps ripped off before their eyes.  And now the troopers waited—­and for what?  An order had come which put them on review, a long thin line of horsemen waiting on the river bank, while the sun beat down on the parched red fields, and the waters of the muddy James lazed by as they murmured their sad, low song.

The troopers were silent—­waiting.  A horse stamped idly in the dust, and a saber rattled against a booted leg.  A whisper ran down the line.  The eyes of the men turned slowly at the sight of a single rider who advanced from the distant Union camp.  He did not take the dusty road which swept in a wide, half-circle to where the waiting troopers sat in line, but jumped a low worm-fence and came straight across the fields.