Betty's face clouded:
"No. I telegraphed him to come. He answered that a great battle was about to be fought and that it was absolutely useless to ask for pardon——"
"But it isn't—is it, dear?"
"No, we'll fight. John doesn't know the President as I do. We'll never give up—you and I—Mother!"
Again they were in each other's arms in silence. The older woman held her close.
And then came the long, hard fight.
The President heard the mother's plea with tender patience and shook his head sorrowfully.
"I'm sorry, dear Madam," he said at last, "to find this case so dangerous and difficult. Our army is approaching a battle. Tremendous issues hang on the results. It looks now as if this battle may end the war. The enemy have as good right to send their brave scouts and spies among us to learn our secrets as we have to send ours to learn theirs. They kill our boys without mercy when captured. I have just asked Jefferson Davis to spare the life of one of the noblest and bravest men I have ever known. He was caught in Richmond on a daring errand for his country. They refused and executed him. How can I face my Secretary of War with such a pardon in my hands?"
The mother's head drooped lower with each sorrowful word and when the voice ceased she fell on her knees, with clasped hands and streaming eyes in a voiceless prayer whose dumb agony found the President's heart more swiftly and terribly than words.
"O my dear little mother, you mustn't do that!" he protested, seizing her hands and lifting her to her feet. "You mustn't kneel to me, I'm not God—I'm just a distracted man praying from hour to hour and day to day for wisdom to do what's right! I can't stand this—you mustn't do such things—they kill me!"