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.
"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.