rce of arms!
You've run me to earth--and you've blocked her chance! It's Virgie you
are fighting now--not me--yes, just as if you rode her down with a troop
of horse! A fine thing, Colonel! For you, a brevet! For me, a firing
squad! Well, call in your men and get it over!" Again he smiled; a grim,
slow smile of bitterness and scorn. "Bravo, Colonel Morrison! Bravo! You
add one other glory to your conquering sword--and, besides, you'll
receive five hundred dollars in reward!"

The Northerner turned upon him fiercely, goaded at last to the
breaking-point in a struggle as black and awful as the struggle of his
brother-foe.

"Stop it, man!" he cried. "I order you to stop! It's duty!--not a
miserable reward!" His cheeks were flaming; his muscles quivered, and
his fists were clenched. "Do you actually suppose," he asked, "that I'm
proud of this? Do you think I'm wringing blood out of your heart and
mine--for money?"

They faced each other, two crouching, snarling animals, the raw,
primeval passions of their hearts released, each seeing through a mist
of red; a mist that had risen up to roll across a mighty land and plunge
its noblest sons into a bloody ruck of war.

They faced each other, silently; then slowly the features of the
Southerner relaxed. His bitterness was laid aside. He spoke, in the
soft, slow accent of his people--an accent so impossible to a trick of
print or pen.

"I'm glad you feel that way; and maybe, after all, you're doing what you
think is right. Yes--and I know it's hard." He stopped, then stepped a
little nearer, timidly, as Virgie might have done. "Colonel," he said,
scarce audibly, "I ask you just one thing; not for myself, but for
her--for Virgie. Get the poor little tad through your lines, will
you?--and--and don't let her know--about _me_."

His captor did not answer him in words, because of the pain that took
him by the throat; but his hand went out, till it reached another hand
that gripped it gratefully.

"Thank you, Morrison," said the prisoner simply. "If it wasn't war
times--"

He choked, and said no more; yet silence proved more eloquent than human
speech. They were men--brave men--and both were grateful; the one,
because an enemy would keep his unspoken word; the other, because a
doomed man understood.

Cary opened the door of his daughter's room and called to her. She came
in quickly, a question in her big brown eyes.

"Daddy," she said, "you talked a mighty long time. It wa