“Good God, Arkwright,” the senator exclaimed angrily, pulling his hand away; “don’t talk like a hymn-book, and don’t make another scene. What you ask is impossible. Tell me what I can do to help you in any other way, and—”
“Come,” repeated the young man firmly.
“The world may judge you by what you do to-night.”
Stanton looked at the boy for a brief moment with a strained and eager scrutiny, and then turned away abruptly and shook his head in silence, and Arkwright passed around the table and on out of the room.
A month later, as the Southern senator was passing through the reading-room of the Union Club, Livingstone beckoned to him, and handing him an afternoon paper pointed at a paragraph in silence.
The paragraph was dated Sagua la Grande, and read:
“The body of Henry Arkwright, an American civil engineer, was brought into Sagua to-day by a Spanish column. It was found lying in a road three miles beyond the line of forts. Arkwright was surprised by a guerilla force while attempting to make his way to the insurgent camp, and on resisting was shot. The body has been handed over to the American consul for interment. It is badly mutilated.”
Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring out of the window at the falling snow and the cheery lights and bustling energy of the avenue.
“Poor fellow,” he said, “he wanted so much to help them. And he didn’t accomplish anything, did he?”
Livingstone stared at the older man and laughed shortly.