I thought of those wonderfully limpid speeches of his:  of the Freeport debates, and of the contrast between his style and Douglas’s.  And I understood the reason for it at last.  I understood the supreme mind that had conceived the Freeport Question.  And as I stood before him then, at the close of this fearful war, the words of the Gospel were in my mind.  ’So the last shall be first, and the first, last; for many be called, but few chosen.’

How I wished that all those who have maligned and tortured him could talk with him as I had talked with him.  To know his great heart would disarm them of all antagonism.  They would feel, as I feel, that his life is so much nobler than theirs, and his burdens so much heavier, that they would go away ashamed of their criticism.

He said to me once, “Brice, I hope we are in sight of the end, now.  I hope that we may get through without any more fighting.  I don’t want to see any more of our countrymen killed.  And then,” he said, as if talking to himself, “and then we must show them mercy—­mercy.”

I thought it a good time to mention Colfax’s case.  He has been on my mind ever since.  Mr. Lincoln listened attentively.  Once he sighed, and he was winding his long fingers around each other while I talked.

“I saw the man captured, Mr. Lincoln,” I concluded, “And if a technicality will help him out, he was actually within his own skirmish line at the time.  The Rebel skirmishers had not fallen back on each side of him.”

“Brice,” he said, with that sorrowful smile, “a technicality might save Colfax, but it won’t save me.  Is this man a friend of yours?” he asked.

That was a poser.

“I think he is, Mr. Lincoln.  I should like to call him so.  I admire him.”  And I went on to tell of what he had done at Vicksburg, leaving out, however, my instrumentality in having him sent north.  The President used almost Sherman’s words.

“By Jing!” he exclaimed. (That seems to be a favorite expression of his.) “Those fellows were born to fight.  If it wasn’t for them, the South would have quit long ago.”  Then he looked at me in his funny way, and said, “See here, Steve, if this Colfax isn’t exactly a friend of yours, there must be some reason why you are pleading for him in this way.”

“Well, sir,” I said, at length, “I should like to get him off on account of his cousin, Miss Virginia Carvel.”  And I told him something about Miss Carvel, and how she had helped you with the Union sergeant that day in the hot hospital.  And how she had nursed Judge Whipple.”

“She’s a fine woman,” he said.  “Those women have helped those men to prolong this war about three years.

“And yet we must save them for the nation’s sake.  They are to be the mothers of our patriots in days to come.  Is she a friend of yours, too, Steve?”

What was I to say?

“Not especially, sir,” I answered finally.  I have had to offend her rather often.  But I know that she likes my mother.”