With the last word quivering upon his lips, his upraised arm fell, and his voice died to a low gasp. A minute later his spirit had fled from the scenes of war.
The guards had looked upon each other with wonder as they listened to the words that were freighted with so much of patriotism, so much of evil to at least one of the listeners—the innocent maiden whose fair countenance was wet with tears.
“Treason! treason!” they cried as in one voice. “We ought to have hung the old traitor! Let’s make an example of——”
“Hold!” exclaimed Boyd Wyman from his couch in an adjoining apartment. “Do nothing rash. They were but the ravings of a wandering mind. Let him rest in death. For the girl’s sake be merciful.”
The scout’s words were not in vain.
The soldiers curbed their anger and the dead was left in peace.
The sight of the poor girl’s grief moved them to sympathy and kindness.
Under their directions the body was prepared for a decent burial and finally, a day later, was borne to its last rest.
A few of the many slaves once owned by Colonel Morland were left at the old plantation and these shed genuine tears of sorrow.
He had been a kind master.