“He was.”
“You recognize the prisoner beyond a shadow of a doubt?”
“I do.”
Had the prisoner any questions to ask the witness? He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. No, he had none. Other formalities followed—curt, decent, all in order. A stranger coming in, ignorant of the issue, would have thought that the matter at stake was trivial. The President’s eye was already collecting the votes of the other members of the Court, when I intervened. I stood forward. I desired to say something.
“Be short, sir. On what point?”
The prisoner’s admirable and humane conduct to me, which by preserving my life had directly wrought his undoing. I desired some delay, and a reference to Lord Cornwallis—
“The matter is irrelevant to the charge,” the President said, stopping me harshly. “You can stand back, sir. Stand back!”
Finding—guilty. Sentence—in the usual form. Execution—within twenty-four hours. All subject to confirmation by the acting Commander-in-Chief.
“The Court is closed.”
I have but sketched the scene, having no heart for more and no wish to linger over it. There are hours so painful and situations so humiliating that the memory shrinks from traversing the old ground. Wilmer, on his side, had no ground for hope, and so could bear himself bravely and with an effort could add magnanimity to courage. He could smile on me, call me “Major” in the old tone, banter me grimly. But my part was harder. To meet his eyes, aware of the return I had made; to know that I, whose life he had saved and whom he had taken to his home, had doomed him to an ignominious death; to shrink from the compassionate looks of friends and the curious gaze of those who scented a new sensation and enjoyed it; and as a background to all this to see in fancy the ashen face and woful eyes of the girl I loved and had orphaned, the girl who far away in that peaceful scene knew nothing of what was passing here—with all this was it wonderful that when I went back to my quarters Paton refused to leave me?