“My dear boy,” laughed Dad. “I don’t want your hardware. Keep it. What earthly use is it to me? It’s a saber. And I’m an infantry officer.”
“It is customary, suh, as you know,” stiffly returned the captain, “for a prisoner to give up his sword to—”
“But, man, dear, you’re not my prisoner,” interrupted Dad. “I don’t want you. What would I do with you? There are more men in the prisons now than we can afford to feed well.”
“Do I understand, suh,” asked the bewildered captain, “that you release me on parole?”
“Parole?” mused Dad reflectively. “I ought to, I suppose. I ought to demand your sacred word of honor that you’ll never again draw sword in the Cause you think is right. That you go back home, eating your heart out, while your brothers are at the front.
“But I’ve had much those same things happen to me in my time. And it’s a hell I wouldn’t send my worst enemy through.
“No, Mister Confed, I’m not going to parole you or any other man. As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to do what you want to.”
“Do you mean that I—”
“By the way,” went on Dad, “I had my grandson borrow your horse. I’m sorry. It was a military necessity. You can take that sorrel over there in its place. The horse is foundered, I’m afraid, but your regimental farrier can bring him back to condition in a day or so. And he’s got good blood and plenty of speed in him.”
“You mean, suh,” muttered the captain, dazed, “that after capturing me you’ll give me not only my freedom but a horse, as well?”