"And now, my dear, what must I do to get the passes?" asked the mother eagerly.
Elsie's warm amber eyes grew misty for a moment, and the fair skin with its gorgeous rose-tints of the North paled. She hesitated, tried to speak, and was silent.
The sensitive soul of the Southern woman read the message of sorrow words had not framed.
"Tell me, quickly! The doctor—has—not—concealed—his—true—condition—from—me?"
"No, he is certain to recover."
"What then?"
"Worse—he is condemned to death by court-martial."
"Condemned to death—a—wounded—prisoner—of—war!" she whispered slowly, with blanched face.
"Yes, he was accused of violating the rules of war as a guerilla raider in the invasion of Pennsylvania."
"Absurd and monstrous! He was on General Jeb Stuart's staff and could have acted only under his orders. He joined the infantry after Stuart's death, and rose to be a colonel, though but a boy. There's some terrible mistake!"
"Unless we can obtain his pardon," Elsie went on in even, restrained tones, "there is no hope. We must appeal to the President."
The mother's lips trembled, and she seemed about to faint.
"Could I see the President?" she asked, recovering herself with an effort.
"He has just reached Washington from the front, and is thronged by thousands. It will be difficult."
