"I do not offer his courage as a plea for pardon," he said, and turned to his general with half a smile, "but still I find in Shakespeare—and in Blackstone—the suggestion of tempering justice with mercy."
Grant tossed aside his pencil, repeating the last word slowly, bitterly:
"Mercy!"
He rose from his seat and stood beside his table, speaking with a low but almost fierce intensity:
"They call me a war machine! I am! And you—and all the rest—are parts of it! A lever! A screw! A valve! A wheel! A machine half human—yes! A thing of muscle and bone and blood—but without a heart! A merciless machine, whose wheels must turn and turn till we grind out this rebellion to the dust of peace!"
He paused impressively, and in the hard, cold words which followed, all hope for Morrison seemed to fade and die.
"If a wheel once fails to do its work—discard it!—for another and a better one! We want no wheels that slip their cogs!"
The General ceased and turned to his littered table; but Harris was not yet beaten.
"No, General," he answered bravely, "but there happens to be a flaw ... in your machine's control." The General looked up, frowning sharply; but Harris still went on: "In a military court we have condemned a man to die—and the facts have not been proved!"
Amazed more at the young officer's obstinate temerity than his words the General stared at him.