"The old man has been regularly camping out there since he learned that his master was inside." A minute passed and then, from a short distance away, came the sound of a squad of soldiers marching.

In single file, with the two prisoners in line, the squad came into the hallway and stopped at the doorway.
"_Halt! Left face! Order arms! Prisoners file out!_" The two prisoners stepped forward and entered the room.
Thanks to expert surgical work since he entered Union lines, Herbert Cary's wounds had healed quickly while plenty of good food had done the rest.

His eyes may not have been bright with hope but at least they were clear with health and his straight back and squared shoulders showed that the man's fighting spirit had not left him even under the adverse decision of a court-martial.
Of the two, Morrison seemed the graver and quieter.

With his sword taken from him and his shoulder straps ripped off the man who had been a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Army of the Potomac only the day before stood looking at his general without the slightest hope for clemency.

Yet, with all the sad, quiet look of resignation in his eyes, behind them glowed a wonderful light--the light of self-sacrifice.