Daws Dillon—­Captain.

Chad gave a low laugh and Harry smiled, but the General kept grave.

“You know, of course, that your brother belongs to Morgan’s command?”

“I do, sir,” said Harry, wonderingly.

“Do you know that his companion—­the man Dillon—­Jerry Dillon—­does?”

“I do not, sir.”

“They were captured by a squad that was fighting Daws Dillon.  This Jerry Dillon has the same name and you found the two together at General Dean’s.”

“But they had both just left General Morgan’s command,” said Harry, indignantly.

“That may be true, but this Daws Dillon has sent a similar message to the Commandant, and he has just been in here again and committed two wanton outrages night before last.  The Commandant is enraged and has issued orders for stern retaliation.”

“It’s a trick of Daws Dillon,” said Chad, hotly, “an infamous trick.  He hates his Cousin Jerry, he hates me, and he hates the Deans, because they were friends of mine.”  General Ward looked troubled.

“The Commandant says he has been positively informed that both the men joined Daws Dillon in the fight that night.  He has issued orders that not only every guerilla captured shall be hung, but that, whenever a Union citizen has been killed by one of them, four of such marauders are to be taken to the spot and shot in retaliation.  It is the only means left, he says.”

There was a long silence.  The faces of both the lads had turned white as each saw the drift of the General’s meaning, and Harry strode forward to his desk.

“Do you mean to say, General Ward—­”

The General wheeled in his chair and pointed silently to an order that lay on the desk, and as Harry started to read it, his voice broke.  Daniel Dean and Rebel Jerry were to be shot next morning at sunrise.

. . . . . .

The General spoke very kindly to Harry.

“I have known this all day, but I did not wish to tell you until I had done everything I could.  I did not think it would be necessary to tell you at all, for I thought there would be no trouble.  I telegraphed the Commandant, but”—­he turned again to the window—­“I have not been able to get them a trial by court-martial, or even a stay in the execution.  You’d better go see your brother—­he knows now—­and you’d better send word to your mother and sister.”

Harry shook his head.  His face was so drawn and ghastly as he stood leaning heavily against the table that Chad moved unconsciously to his side.

“Where is the Commandant?” he asked.

“In Frankfort,” said the General.  Chad’s eyes kindled.

“Will you let me go see him to-night?”

“Certainly, and I will give you a message to him.  Perhaps you can yet save the boy, but there is no chance for the man Dillon.”  The General took up a pen.  Harry seemed to sway as he turned to go, and Chad put one arm around him and went with him to the door.