Only Corporal Dudley stood disconcerted at the startling statement, but
as there was no help for it he could only strangle an oath and give the
order to pass out.

"_'Tention! Right face! Forward! March!_"

They mounted and rode a rod or two away, awaiting orders; while Morrison
stood silently and watched them go. He, too--like Virgie--had wrestled
with a problem, and it stirred him to the depths. As a trooper must
obey, so also must an officer obey a higher will; yes, even as a slave
in iron manacles. The master of war had made his laws; and a servant
broke them, knowingly. A captured scout was a prisoner, no more; a spy
must hang, or fall before the volley of a firing squad. No matter for
his bravery; no matter for the faithful service to his cause, the man
must die! The glory was for another; for one who waved a flag on the
spine of a bloody trench; a trench which his brothers stormed--and gave
the blood. No matter that a spy had made this triumph possible. He had
worn a uniform which was not his own--and the dog must die!

So ruled the god of warfare; still, did war prescribe disgrace and death
for all? If Cary had crept through the Union lines, to reach the side of
a helpless little one--_yes, even in a coat of blue_--would the Great
Tribunal count his deed accursed? Should fearless human love reap no
reward beyond the crashing epitaph of a firing squad, and the powder
smoke that drifted with the passing of a soul?

"No! No!" breathed Morrison. "In God's name, give the man his chance!"

He straightened his back and smiled. He took from the table a rumpled
paper and turned to the littlest factor in the great Rebellion.