Mark saw it, and exclaimed, “Great God! Joyce, you don’t blame me, do you? I had to do it to save my life. He was about to cut me down with his sword when I fired.”
“No, no,” she cried, “I don’t blame you, but it was so sudden; it is so dreadful. I never before realized that war was so terrible.”
“Well, Joyce, save the poor fellow’s life if you can; I don’t want his death on my hands if I can help it. Do you know who your prisoner is?”
“No, you see the condition he is in.”
“His name is Pennington, Calhoun Pennington. He is one of Morgan’s bravest and most daring officers. I ought to know him, he took me prisoner twice.”
“You, Mark, you?”
“Yes, you remember I told you how I lost my horse in Tennessee. He is the fellow who took it. He afterwards captured me at Cave City.”
“Mark, what will become of him if he gets well?” she asked.
“The United States officials will take him,” he answered. “His being here must be reported.”
“And—and he will be sent to prison?”