"Why not?" asked Morrison.

"Because," said Cary, in sullen anger, "I don't ask quarter, nor aid,
from a man who frightens children."

The Northerner's chin went up; and when he replied his voice was
trembling; not in passion, but with a deeper, finer something which had
gripped his admiration for the courage of a child:

"And I wouldn't hurt a hair of her splendid little head!" He paused,
then spoke again, more calmly: "You thought me a beast to frighten her;
but don't you know it was the only thing to do? Otherwise my men might
have had to shoot you--before her eyes." Cary made no answer, though now
he understood; and Morrison went on: "It isn't easy for me to track a
fellow creature down; to take him when he's wounded, practically
unarmed, and turn him over to a firing squad. But it's war, my
friend--one of the merciless realities of war--and you ought to know the
meaning of its name."

"Yes, I know," returned the Southerner, with all the pent-up bitterness
of a hopeless struggle and defeat; "it has taken three years to teach
me--_and I know_! Look at me!" he cried, as he stood up in his rags and
spread his arms. "Look at my country, swept as bare as a stubble field!
You've whipped us, maybe, with your millions of money and your endless
men, and now you are warring with the women and the children!" He turned
his back and spoke in the deep intensity of scorn: "A fine thing,
Colonel! And may you get your ... reward!"

The Northerner set his lips in a thin, cold line; but curbed his wrath
and answered the accusation quietly: