“Solomon, I’m not going out to be shot in the back,” said the young man.  “If I am to be executed, it must be done with witnesses in proper form.  I shall refuse to go.  If Margaret should come, and it is possible, I want you to sit down with her in front of my cell so that I can see her, but do not tell her that I am here.  It would increase her trouble and do no good.  Besides, I could not permit myself to touch her hand even, but I would love to look into her face.”

So it happened that the proposal which had come to Jack through Mr. Pinhorn was firmly declined, whereupon the astonishment of that official was expressed in a sorrowful gesture and the exclamation:  “Doomed!  Stubborn youth!”

2

Solomon Binkus was indeed a shrewd man.  In the faded packet of letters is one which recites the history of the confinement of the two scouts in the Boston jail.  It tells of the coming of Margaret that very evening with an order from the Adjutant General directing Mr. Pinhorn to allow her to talk with the “rebel prisoner Solomon Binkus.”

The official conducted her to the iron grated door in front of Solomon’s cell.

“I will talk with him in the corridor, if you please,” she said, as she gave the jailer a guinea, whereupon he became most obliging.  The cell door was opened and chairs were brought for them to sit upon.  Cannons were roaring again and the sound was nearer than it had been before.

“Have you heard from Jack?” she asked when they were seated in front of the cell of the latter.

“Yes, ma’am.  He is well, but like a man shot with rock salt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sufferin’,” Solomon answered.  “Kind o’ riddled with thoughts o’ you an’ I wouldn’t wonder.”

“Did you get a letter?” she asked.

“No.  A young officer who was ketched an’ brought here t’other day has told me all ’bout him.”

“Is the officer here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Solomon answered.

“I want to see him—­I want to talk with him.  I must meet the man who has come from the presence of my Jack.”

Solomon was visibly embarrassed.  He was in trouble for a moment and then he answered:  “I’m ’fraid ’twouldn’t do no good.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause he’s deef an’ dumb.”

“But do you not understand?  It would be a comfort to look at him.”

“He’s in this cell, but I wouldn’t know how to call him,” Solomon assured her.

She went to Jack’s door and peered at him through the grating.  He was lying on his straw bed.  The light which came from candles set in brackets on the stone wall of the corridor was dim.

“Poor, poor fellow!” she exclaimed.  “I suppose he is thinking of his sweetheart or of some one very dear to him.  His eyes are covered with his handkerchief.  So you have lately seen the boy I love!  How I wish you could tell me about him!”

The voice of the young lady had had a curious effect upon that nerve-racked, homesick company of soldier lads in prison.  Doubtless it had reminded some of dear and familiar voices which they had lost hope of hearing again.