What had the man done?  Told her a few funny stories—­given quizzical answers to some of her questions.  Quizzical, yes; but she could not be sure then there was not wisdom in them, and that humiliated her.  She had never conceived of such a man.  And, be it added gratuitously, Virginia deemed herself something of an adept in dealing with men.

“And now,” said Mr. Lincoln, “to continue for the defence, I believe that Colonel Colfax first distinguished himself at the time of Camp Jackson, when of all the prisoners he refused to accept a parole.”

Startled, she looked up at him swiftly, and then down again.  “Yes,” she answered, “yes.  But oh, Mr. Lincoln, please don’t hold that against him.”

If she could only have seen his face then.  But her lashes were dropped.

“My dear young lady,” replied the President, “I honor him for it.  I was merely elaborating the argument which you have begun.  On the other hand, it is a pity that he should have taken off that uniform which he adorned and attempted to enter General Sherman’s lines as a civilian,—­as a spy.”

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.