Prescott was awakened from his sleep by his mother, who came to him in suppressed anxiety, telling him that a soldier was in the outer room with a message demanding his instant presence at headquarters. At once there flitted through his mind a dream of that long night, now passed, the flight together, the ride, the warm and luminous presence beside him and the last sight of her as she passed over the hill to the fires that burned in the Northern camp. A dream it was, vague and misty as the darkness through which they had passed, but it left a delight, vague and misty like itself, that refused to be dispelled by the belief that this message was from Mr. Sefton, who intended to strike where his armour was weakest.

With the power of repression inherited from his Puritan mother he hid from her pleasure and apprehension alike, saying:

“Some garrison duty, mother. You know in such a time of war I can’t expect to live here forever in ease and luxury.”

The letter handed to him by the messenger, an impassive Confederate soldier in butternut gray, was from the commandant of the forces in Richmond, ordering him to report to Mr. Sefton for instructions. Here were all his apprehensions justified. The search had been made, the soldiers had gone to the cottage of Miss Grayson, the girl was not there, and the Secretary now turned to him, Robert Prescott, as if he were her custodian, demanding her, or determined to know what he had done with her. Well, his own position was uncertain, but she at least was safe far beyond the lines of Richmond, now with her own people, and neither the hand of Sefton nor of any other could touch her. That thought shed a pleasant glow, all the more grateful because it was he who had helped her. But toward the Secretary he felt only defiance.

As he went forth to obey the summons the city was bright, all white and silver and gold in its sheet of ice, with a wintry but golden sun above; but something was missing from Richmond, nevertheless. It suddenly occurred to him that Miss Grayson must be very lonely in her bleak little cottage.

He went undisturbed by guards to the Secretary’s room the Confederate Government was never immediately surrounded with bayonets and knocked upon the door. A complete absence of state and formality prevailed.

The Secretary was not alone, and Prescott was not surprised. The President of the Confederacy himself sat near the window, and just beyond him was Wood, in a great armchair, looking bored. There were present, too, General Winder, the commander of the forces in the city, another General or two and members of the Cabinet.

“An inquisition,” thought Prescott. “This disappointed Secretary would ruin me.”

The saving thought occurred to him that if he had known of Miss Catherwood’s presence in Richmond Mr. Sefton also had known of it. The wily Secretary must have in view some other purpose than to betray him, when by so doing he would also betray himself. Prescott gathered courage, and saluting, stood respectfully, though in the attitude of one who sought no favour.

All the men in the room looked at him, some with admiration of the strong young figure and the open, manly face, others with inquiry. He wondered that Wood, a man who belonged essentially to the field of battle, should be there; but the cavalry leader, for his great achievements, was high in the esteem of the Confederate Government.

It was the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, who spoke, for the others seemed involuntarily to leave to him subjects requiring craft and guile a tribute or not as one chooses to take it.

“The subject upon which we have called you is not new to us nor to you,” said the Secretary in expressionless tones. “We revert to the question of a spy a woman. It is now known that it was a woman who stole the important papers from the office of the President. The secret service of General Winder has learned that she has been in this city all the while that is, until the last night or two.”

He paused here a few moments as if he would mark the effect of his words, and his eyes and those of Prescott met. Prescott tried to read what he saw there to pierce the subconscious depths, and he felt as if he perceived the soul of this man a mighty ambition under a silky exterior, and a character in which a dual nature struggled. Then his eyes wandered a moment to Wood. Both he and Sefton were mountaineers in the beginning, and what a contrast now! But he stood waiting for the Secretary to proceed.

“It has become known to us,” continued the Secretary, “that this dangerous spy dangerous because of the example she has set, and because of the connections that she may have here has just escaped from the city. She was concealed in the house of Miss Charlotte Grayson, a well-known Northern sympathizer a house which you are now known, Captain Prescott, to have visited more than once.”

Prescott looked again into the Secretary’s eyes and a flash of intelligence passed between them. He read once more in their depths the desire of this man to torture him to drag him to the edge of the abyss, but not to push him over.

“There is a suspicion or perhaps I ought to say a fear that you have given aid and comfort to the enemy, this spy, Captain Prescott,” said the Secretary.

Prescott’s eyes flashed with indignant fire.

“I have been wounded five times in the service of the Confederacy,” he replied, “and I have here an arm not fully recovered from the impact of a Northern bullet.” He turned his left arm as he spoke. “If that was giving aid and comfort to the enemy, then I am guilty.”

A murmur of approval arose. He had made an impression.

“It was by my side at Chancellorsville that he received one of his wounds,” said Wood in his peculiar slow, drawling tones.

Prescott shot him a swift and grateful glance.

But the Secretary persisted. He was not to be turned aside, not even by the great men of the Confederacy who sat in the room about him.

“No one doubts the courage of Captain Prescott,” he said, “because that has been proved too often you see, Captain, we are familiar with your record but even the best of men may become exposed to influences that cause an unconscious change of motive. I repeat that none of us is superior to it.”

Prescott saw at once the hidden meaning in the words, and despite himself a flush rose to his face. Perhaps it was true.

The Secretary looked away toward the window, his glance seeming to rest on the white world of winter outside, across which the yellow streaks of sunlight fell like a golden tracery. He interlaced his fingers thoughtfully upon his knees while he waited for an answer. But Prescott had recovered his self-possession.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “I am not accustomed, perhaps, to close and delicate analysis of my own motives, but this I will say, that I have never knowingly done anything that I thought would cause the Confederacy harm; while, on the contrary, I have done all I could so far as my knowledge went that would do it good.”

As he spoke he glanced away from the Secretary toward the others, and he thought he saw the shadow of a smile on the face of the President. What did it mean? He was conscious again of the blood flushing to his face. It was the President himself who next spoke.

“Do you know where this woman is, Captain Prescott?” he asked.

“No, I do not know where she is,” he replied, thankful that the question had come in such a form.

Wood, the mountaineer, moved impatiently. He was of an impetuous disposition, untrammeled by rule, and he stood in awe of nobody.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I can’t exactly see the drift of all this talk. I’d as soon believe that any of us would be a traitor as Captain Prescott, an’ I don’t think we’ve got much time to waste on matters like this. Grant’s a-comin’. I tell you, gentlemen, we’ve got to think of meetin’ him and not of huntin’ for a woman spy.”

He spoke with emphasis, and again Prescott shot him another swift and grateful glance.

“There is no question of treason, General Wood,” said Mr. Sefton placidly. “None of us would wrong Captain Prescott by imputing to him such a crime. I merely suggested an unconscious motive that might have made him deflect for a moment, and for a moment only, from the straight and narrow path of duty.”

Prescott saw a cruel light in the Secretary’s eyes and behind it a suggestion of enjoyment in the power to make men laugh or quiver as he wished; but he did not flinch, merely repeating:

“I have done my duty to the Confederacy as best I could, and I am ready to do it again. Even the children among us know that a great battle is coming, and I ask that I be permitted again to show my loyalty at the front.”

“Good words from a good man,” exclaimed Wood.

“General,” said the President quietly, “comments either for or against are not conducive to the progress of an examination.”

Wood took the rebuke in good part, lifted a ruler from the table and with an imaginary pocket-knife began to trim long shavings from it.

Prescott, despite his feeling that he had done no moral wrong though technically and in a military sense he had sinned could not escape the sensation of being on trial as a criminal, and his heart rose up in indignant wrath. Those five wounds were ample reply to such a charge. He felt these questions to be an insult, and cold anger against the Secretary who was seeking to entrap or torture him rose in his heart. There came with it a resolve not to betray his part in the escape of the girl; but they never asked him whether or not he had helped her in her flight. When he noticed this his feeling of apprehension departed, and he faced the Secretary, convinced that the duel was with him alone and that these others were but seconds to whom Mr. Sefton had confided only a part of what he knew.

The Secretary asked more questions, but again they were of a general nature and did not come to the point, as he made no mention of Miss Grayson or her cottage.

Wood said nothing, but he was growing more impatient than ever, and the imaginary shavings whittled by his imaginary knife were increasing in length.

“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “it still ‘pears to me that we are wastin’ time. I know Prescott an’ he’s all right. I don’t care two cents whether or not he helped a woman to escape. S’pose she was young and pretty.”

All smiled saved Sefton and Prescott.

“General, would you let gallantry override patriotism?” asked the President.

“There ain’t no woman in the world that can batter down the Confederacy,” replied the other stoutly. “If that is ever done, it’ll take armies to do it, and I move that we adjourn.”

The President looked at his watch.

“Yes,” he said, “we must go. Mr. Sefton, you may continue the examination as you will and report to me. Captain Prescott, I bid you good-day, and express my wish that you may come clear from this ordeal.”

Prescott bowed his thanks, but to Wood, whose active intervention in his behalf had carried much weight, he felt deeper gratitude, though he said nothing, and still stood in silence as the others went out, leaving him alone with the Secretary.

Mr. Sefton, too, was silent for a time, still interlacing his fingers thoughtfully and glancing now and then through the window. Then he looked at Prescott and his face changed. The cruelty which had lurked in his eyes disappeared and in its place came a trace of admiration, even liking.

“Captain Prescott,” he said, “you have borne yourself very well for a man who knew he was wholly in the power of another, made by circumstances his enemy for the time being.”

“I am not wholly in the power of anybody,” replied Prescott proudly. “I repeat that I have done nothing at any time of which I am ashamed or for which my conscience reproaches me.”

“That is irrelevant. It is not any question of shame or conscience, which are abstract things. It is merely one of fact that is, whether you did or did not help Miss Catherwood, the spy, to escape. I am convinced that you helped her not that I condemn you for it or that I am sorry you did so. Perhaps it is for my interest that you have acted thus. You were absent from your usual haunts yesterday and the night before, and it was within that time that the spy disappeared from Miss Grayson’s. I have no doubt that you were with her. You see, I did not press the question when the others were here. I halted at the critical point. I had that much consideration for you.”

He stopped again and the glances of these two strong men met once more; Prescott’s open and defiant, Sefton’s cunning and indirect.

“I hear that she is young and very beautiful,” said the Secretary thoughtfully.

Prescott flushed.

“Yes, young and very beautiful,” continued the Secretary. “One might even think that she was more beautiful than Helen Harley.”

Prescott said nothing, but the deep flush remained on his face.

“Therefore,” continued the Secretary, “I should imagine that your stay with her was not unpleasant.”

“Mr. Sefton,” exclaimed Prescott, taking an angry step forward, “your intimation is an insult and one that I do not propose to endure.”

“You mistake my meaning,” said the Secretary calmly. “I intended no such intimation as you thought, but I wonder what Helen Harley would think of the long period that you have spent with one as young and beautiful as herself.”

He smiled a little, showing his white teeth, and Prescott, thrown off his guard, replied:

“She would think it a just deed.”

“Then you admit that it is true?”

“I admit nothing,” replied Prescott firmly. “I merely stated what I thought would be the opinion of Helen Harley concerning an act of mercy.”

The Secretary smiled.

“Captain Prescott,” he said, “I am not sorry that this has happened, but be assured that I am not disposed to make war upon you now. Shall we let it be an armed peace for the present?”

He showed a sudden warmth of manner and an easy agreeableness that Prescott found hard to resist. Rising from the chair, he placed his hand lightly upon Robert’s arm, saying:

“I shall go with you to the street, Captain, if you will let me.”

Together they left the room, the Secretary indicating the way, which was not that by which Prescott had come. They passed through a large office and here Prescott saw many clerks at work at little desks, four women among them. Helen Harley was one of the four. She was copying papers, her head bent down, her brown hair low on her forehead, unconscious of her observers.

In her simple gray dress she looked not less beautiful than on that day when, in lilac and rose, drawing every eye, she received General Morgan. She did not see them as they entered, for her head remained low and the wintry sunshine from the window gleamed across her brown hair.

The Secretary glanced at her casually, as it were, but Prescott saw a passing look on his face that he could translate into nothing but triumphant proprietorship. Mr. Sefton was feeling more confident since the examination in the room above.

“She works well,” he said laconically.

“I expected as much,” said Prescott.

“It is not true that people of families used to an easy life cannot become efficient when hardship arrives,” continued the Secretary. “Often they bring great zeal to their new duties.”

Evidently he was a man who demanded rigid service, as the clerks who saw him bent lower to their task, but Helen did not notice the two until they were about to pass through a far door. Her cheeks reddened as they went out, for it hurt her pride that Prescott should see her there a mere clerk, honest and ennobling though she knew work to be.

The press of Richmond was not without enterprise even in those days of war and want, and it was seldom lacking in interest. If not news, then the pungent comment and criticism of Raymond and Winthrop were sure to find attentive readers, and on the day following Prescott’s interview with the Secretary they furnished to their readers an uncommonly attractive story.

It had been discovered that the spy who stole the papers was a beautiful woman a young Amazon of wonderful charms. She had been concealed in Richmond all the while perhaps she might be in the city yet and it was reported that a young Confederate officer, yielding to her fascinations, had hidden and helped her at the risk of his own ruin.

Here, indeed, was a story full of mystery and attraction; the city throbbed with it, and all voices were by no means condemnatory. It is a singular fact that in war people develop an extremely sentimental side, as if to atone for the harsher impulses that carry them into battle. Throughout the Civil War the Southerners wrote much so-called poetry and their newspapers were filled with it. This story of the man and the maid appealed to them. If the man had fallen well, he had fallen in a good cause. He was not the first who had been led astray by the tender, and therefore pardonable, emotion. What did it matter if she was a Northern girl and a spy? These were merely added elements to variety and charm. If he had made a sacrifice of himself, either voluntarily or involuntarily, it was for a woman, and women understood and forgave.

They wondered what this young officer’s name might be made deft surmises, and by piecing circumstance to circumstance proved beyond a doubt that sixteen men were certainly he. It was somewhat tantalizing that at least half of these men, when accused of the crime, openly avowed their guilt and said they would do it again. Prescott, who was left out of all these calculations, owing to the gravity and soberness of his nature, read the accounts with mingled amusement and vexation. There was nothing in any of them by which he could be identified, and he decided not to inquire how the story reached the newspapers, being satisfied in his own mind that he knew already. The first to speak to him of the matter was his friend Talbot.

“Bob,” he said, “I wonder if this is true. I tried to get Raymond to tell me where he got the story, but he wouldn’t, and as all the newspapers have it in the same way, I suppose they got it from the same source. But if there is such a girl, and if she has been here, I hope she has escaped and that she’ll stay escaped.”

It was pleasant for Prescott to hear Talbot talk thus, and this opinion was shared by many others as he soon learned, and his conscience remained at ease, although he was troubled about Miss Grayson. But he met her casually on the street about a week afterward and she said:

“I have had a message from some one. She is safe and well and she is grateful.” She would add no more, and Prescott did not dare visit her house, watched now with a vigilance that he knew he could not escape; but he wondered often if Lucia Catherwood and he in the heave and drift of the mighty war should ever meet again.

The gossip of Richmond was not allowed to dwell long on the story of the spy, with all its alluring mystery of the man and the maid. Greater events were at hand. A soft wind blew from the South one day. The ice broke up, the snow melted, the wind continued to blow, the earth dried winter was gone and spring in its green robe was coming. The time of play was over. The armies rose from their sleep in the snows and began to brush the rust from the cannon. Horses stretched themselves and generals studied their maps anew. Three years of tremendous war was gone, but they were prepared for a struggle yet more gigantic.

To those in Richmond able to bear arms was sent an order “Come at once to the front” and among them was Prescott, nothing loath. His mother kissed him a tearless good-by, hiding her grief and fear under her Puritan face.

“I feel that this is the end, one way or the other,” she said.

“I hope so, mother.”

“But it may be long delayed,” she added.

To Helen he said a farewell like that of a boy to the girl who has been his playmate. Although she flushed a little, causing him to flush, too, deep tenderness was absent from their parting, and there was a slight constraint that neither could fail to notice.

Talbot was going with him, Wood and Colonel Harley were gone already, and Winthrop and Raymond said they should be at the front to see. Then Prescott bade farewell to Richmond, where in the interval of war he had spent what he now knew to be a golden month or two.