He had spoken these last words very gently, but she was too excited to heed his gentleness.  She drew herself up, a gleam in her eyes like the crest of a blue wave in a storm.

“A spy!” she cried; “it takes more courage to be a spy than anything else in war.  Then he will be shot.  You are not content in, the North with what you have gained.  You are not content with depriving us of our rights, and our fortunes, with forcing us back to an allegiance we despise.  You are not content with humiliating our generals and putting innocent men in prisons.  But now I suppose you will shoot us all.  And all this mercy that I have heard about means nothing—­nothing—­”

Why did she falter and stop?

“Miss Carvel,” said the President, “I am afraid from what I have heard just now, that it means nothing.”  Oh, the sadness of that voice,—­the ineffable sadness,—­the sadness and the woe of a great nation!  And the sorrow in those eyes, the sorrow of a heavy cross borne meekly,—­how heavy none will ever know.  The pain of a crown of thorns worn for a world that did not understand.  No wonder Virginia faltered and was silent.  She looked at Abraham Lincoln standing there, bent and sorrowful, and it was as if a light had fallen upon him.  But strangest of all in that strange moment was that she felt his strength.  It was the same strength she had felt in Stephen Brice.  This was the thought that came to her.

Slowly she walked to the window and looked out across the green grounds where the wind was shaking the wet trees, past the unfinished monument to the Father of her country, and across the broad Potomac to Alexandria in the hazy distance.  The rain beat upon the panes, and then she knew that she was crying softly to herself.  She had met a force that she could not conquer, she had looked upon a sorrow that she could not fathom, albeit she had known sorrow.

Presently she felt him near.  She turned and looked through her tears at his face that was all compassion.  And now she was unashamed.  He had placed a chair behind her.

“Sit down, Virginia,” he said.  Even the name fell from him naturally.

She obeyed him then like a child.  He remained standing.

“Tell me about your cousin,” he said; “are you going to marry him?”

She hung an instant on her answer.  Would that save Clarence?  But in that moment she could not have spoken anything but the truth to save her soul.

“No, Mr. Lincoln,” she said; “I was—­but I did not love him.  I—­I think that was one reason why he was so reckless.”

Mr. Lincoln smiled.

“The officer who happened to see Colonel Colfax captured is now in Washington.  When your name was given to me, I sent for him.  Perhaps he is in the anteroom now.  I should like to tell you, first of all, that this officer defended your cousin and asked me to pardon him.”

“He defended him!  He asked you to pardon him!  Who is he?” she exclaimed.