"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 was a heap more
than jus' a minute."

"Was it?" he asked, and forced a smile. "Well, you see, we had a lot to
say." He seated himself and, drawing her between his knees, took both
her hands. "Now listen, honey; I'm going away with this gentleman,
and--" He stopped as she looked up doubtfully; then added a dash of
gayety to his tender tone: "Oh, but he _invited_ me. And think! He's