“But I have written,” cried Jeanne, tearfully. “And I want to get home. I don’t want to stay here one bit. I want––”
“Men, why do you dally here with your prisoner?” came in stern tones from Colonel Peyton who had approached the group unobserved. “I desire that no further communication be allowed between this man and that girl. Are they not both Federals?”
“Being as he was your son, Colonel,” said the leader, saluting, “we thought––”
“Your business is to obey orders, not to think,” interrupted the officer brusquely. “He is no son of mine. My son died to me long ago.”
“Dad,” cried the cheery voice of Bob as she came toward him. “They say that you have caught a spy. Where is he? Why––” Her gaze fell upon the prisoner and she stopped short. “Frank,” she cried, shrilly, “it’s Frank! Oh, dad, what does it mean?”
“It means,” said the Colonel, trying to draw her away, “that you have no brother, Bob. This man is nothing to you. He is a spy and as such dies at sunrise.”
“At sunrise!” shrieked Bob. “No, no!”
“Away with that fellow,” ordered the Colonel, harshly. “And mind! I shall hold each one of you personally responsible for his safety. Bob,” as the soldiers bore his son away, “you are under arrest. Go to your quarters and stay there until I release you. And you also,” to Jeanne.
“You have no right to arrest me, Colonel Peyton,” said Jeanne coldly. “I refuse to obey any man who sentences his own son to death.”
“You refuse to obey me?” cried the Colonel, loth to believe his ears. “Me?”