“Why, has not God sent you to release me?” asked Mildred with the simple faith of a child.
“O, you old blue-stocking Presbyterian!” cried Capt. Benner, breaking into a laugh. “That is so like you. You get into an ugly scrape, and ask God to help you out of it, and a kind-hearted young fellow calls to see you, and you forthwith jump to the conclusion that the Lord sent him to save you. What a faith you do have. But don’t be too fast,” continued the officer, with a merry twinkle, “you are a rebel, and I am a union man. I don’t know whether I ought to have called at all or not. But how do you expect me to save you? Do you want me to be a traitor? Do you want me to release a dangerous spy? Say, now?”
“No, cousin. If it endangers you, let me be. I am ready to be sacrificed on the altar of my country,” said Mildred.
“O, ho! you want to be a martyr, do you?”
“No; I have no ambition in that way,” replied Mildred. “I would prefer to go home to my family; but I do not want you to take any risks to save me.”
“Do you suppose I could release a prisoner without taking risks? To be sure, my fair cousin, I will have to take risks.”
“Then, leave me alone,” said Mildred.
“Leave you to be hanged, you mean?”
“Yes, if that is the penalty.”
“And after that deplorable event,” said the officer, “could I ever look my mother in the face? Could I see Uncle Arrington again, and good Aunt Jennie? After the war, when I go down South again, and call at uncle’s, and I should hold out my hand, he would start back and say, ‘No, I cannot touch that hand; it is stained with poor Mildred’s blood.’ And aunt would say, ‘Leave me, Will, I cannot bear to look at you.’ How do you suppose I would feel, eh? I guess I should go off like Judas did, and hang myself—I think I would.”