Stoneman looked at the doctor, dazed by his sudden onslaught and collapse.
“Yes, he was somebody’s boy down here,” he went on, “who was loved perhaps even as I love—I don’t blame you. See, in the inside pocket next to my heart I carry the pictures of Phil and Elsie taken from babyhood up, all set in a little book. They don’t know this—nor does the world dream I’ve been so soft-hearted——”
He drew a miniature album from his pocket and fumbled it aimlessly:
“You know Phil was my first-born——”
His voice broke, and he looked at the doctor helplessly.
The Southerner slipped his arm around the old man’s shoulders and began a tender and reverent prayer.
The sudden thunder of a squad of cavalry with clanking sabres swept by the hotel toward the jail.
Stoneman scrambled to his feet, staggered, and caught a chair.
“It’s no use,” he groaned, “—they’ve come with his body—I’m slipping down—the lights are going out—I haven’t a friend! It’s dark and cold—I’m alone, and lost—God—has—hidden—His—face—from—me!”
Voices were heard without, and the tramp of heavy feet on the steps.