"No—no," said Griffith, taking up a pencil from the table. "No; the real opening—the road pass— Let me see; what's the scale of miles here? M-m-m! Four? No— Why, the road pass is at least five miles farther on." He drew a line. "You see, it's like this. There." He stopped and shook his head. "M-m-m! No, n-o-o; that map's all wrong. It ought to run along there—so. This way. The road—the wagon road—trends along here—so. Then you go across the ridge at an angle here—so. There ought to be a stream here.
"O pshaw! this map's— Where did you get this map? It's no account, at all. Why, according to this, there's at least seven miles left out right here, between— Why, right here, where they've got those little, insignificant-looking foothills, is one of the most rugged and impassable places in this world! Here, now!" He drew several lines and turned the map. "O pshaw! there's no place left now for the—Here, right a-b-o-u-t h-e-r-e—no, there, right there—is the Bedolph estate—fine old stone house, corn-fields, wheat, orchards—a splendid place. Then, as you go up this way, you pass into a sort of pocket—a little strip pretty well hedged in. You couldn't go with a carriage without making a circuit around here—this way—but a horseman can cut all that off and go—so. See? There is a mill—fine old mill stream—right here—runs this way."
Mr. Lincoln had followed every line eagerly, making little vocal sounds of understanding, or putting in a single word to lead Griffith on. Suddenly he said:
"You're a good Union man Morton tells me."
"I am, indeed, Mr. Lincoln. Nobody in the world could be more sorry than I over the present situation. I——"
"How sorry are you?"
"What do you mean?" asked Griffith, straightening up. Mr. Lincoln arose at the same time.
"How much of a Union man are you?—'nough to help save it? How sorry are you?—sorry enough to act?"
Griffith had almost forgotten why he was here. It all came back to him. He began to breathe hard.
"I have acted, I have helped," he said, moving toward the window. "When you came in the room I was looking through those fine glasses of yours at that bridge, across which I came in fifty-three, self-exiled, hastening to escape from the bondage of ownership, and, at the last, from the legal penalty of leaving behind me two freed, runaway negroes." He had lifted the glasses to his eyes again. "I thought then that I had done my full duty—all of it. But since then I have given my three sons to you—to my country. They——"