"I am Robert Bright, of General Pickett's staff."
The hand of the prisoner closed warmly over the one lying upon his arm. "He looked into my face as if a miracle had been performed," wrote Captain Bright.
"My own! One of my own again!" said Mr. Davis, in that musical voice that held a note of heart-break always after the fall of the Confederacy—a cadence which deepened and saddened his melodious tones until they were merged into the perfect symphony of the greater life.
In his loneliness he had so yearned for some one who had belonged to him—some one who had taken part with him in that short-lived, tragic dream-nation for which the South had given her blood and treasure—that his heart leaped up to meet the sympathy of the tender, reverent voice.
The surgeon came up to make his morning examination. At sight of him the light in the sad face died away and the look of helpless suffering returned. Having finished his work the surgeon said:
"Come, Captain."
"And is this all?" asked Mr. Davis, as his visitor passed on and again reverently touched his arm.
"I would have given my whole fortune," wrote the captain, who had just succeeded to an inheritance of considerable value, "to have stayed there in his place and let him go free."
"There is not one of us in all the South, not a soldier of us, who would not gladly take his place and save him from humiliation and suffering," said my Soldier, looking up from the letter.
Captain Bright pleaded with his kinsman to let him make another visit and stay long enough to speak some word of cheer to his heartbroken chief.