"Yes, Miss Elsie, and so are all who know him."
She turned from the window without reply. A shadow crossed her face as she looked past the long rows of cots, on which rested the men in blue, until her eyes found one on which lay, alone among his enemies, a young Confederate officer.
The surgeon turned with her toward the man.
"Will he live?" she asked.
"Yes, only to be hung."
"For what?" she cried.
"Sentenced by court-martial as a guerilla. It's a lie, but there's some powerful hand back of it—some mysterious influence in high authority. The boy wasn't fully conscious at the trial."
"We must appeal to Mr. Stanton."
"As well appeal to the Devil. They say the order came from his office."
"A boy of nineteen!" she exclaimed. "It's a shame. I'm looking for his mother. You told me to telegraph to Richmond for her."
"Yes, I'll never forget his cries that night, so utterly pitiful and childlike. I've heard many a cry of pain, but in all my life nothing so heart-breaking as that boy in fevered delirium talking to his mother. His voice is one of peculiar tenderness, penetrating and musical. It goes quivering into your soul, and compels you to listen until you swear it's your brother or sweetheart or sister or mother calling you. You should have seen him the day he fell. God of mercies, the pity and the glory of it!"
