"But you," he accused, "you've beaten a baby by the force 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.