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 motive