Stonewall Jackson sat in his tent, writing rapidly on a rough pine table. There was in the man, in spite of his old coat stained here and there with mud, and his awkwardness of position and figure, an appearance of power,—power conscious and self-sustaining. At a first glance he seemed an old Virginia farmer; but an instant’s careful scrutiny showed, beneath his awkward simplicity, the grace of a true soldier, while the slow, hesitating speech had in it an undertone which made it evident that at times each word might be charged with fire and eloquence and life. As he moved one hand to brush back the thinned hair on his temples, this hot afternoon, a staff-officer entered the tent.

“I have some curious news, General,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Jackson, briefly; for a word was a power with this man, and he never wasted power.

“The prisoner who broke his parole this morning has returned here,” said the officer.

“What!” exclaimed Jackson, “has he given himself up?”

“Yes, General; they have him in confinement, and he has asked to see you.”

“To see me, lieutenant!” said Stonewall Jackson. “That will make no difference. He is to be shot at sunrise.”

“Very well, General;” and the lieutenant turned to depart.

“Stop a moment, though,” said Jackson. “I should like to know what defence, what excuse he has to offer. Have him brought here.”

“Very well, General. But he is to be shot?”

“Certainly, sir!”

Jackson laid down his pen, and folded his arms before him on the rough board which served him as a writing-table. He had not long to wait. In less than five minutes, Ned appeared, guarded by two soldiers, his face pale but determined. He met Stonewall Jackson’s scrutinizing look clearly and fearlessly, yet respectfully. “You may withdraw,” said Jackson to the men. “Now, sir, you wish to see me. What have you to say?”

“I broke my parole this morning,” said Ned.

“I know it, sir,” said Jackson; “and, having some compunction for your violation of honor, you have tried as a manoeuvre giving yourself up again. You have made a mistake, sir.”

“It is just because I knew you would misconstrue my motive and my action thus that I asked to see you,” said Ned. “I wish to explain.”

“No explanation is possible, sir,” cried Stonewall Jackson; “and this will avail you nothing.”

“Oh! wait a moment,” cried Ned, impetuously. “Don’t deceive yourself. I know what I am doing; I knew a few hours ago, when I left the Union lines, what I was doing. I came here to die,—to be shot! Do you hear,—to be shot! I broke my parole; I expected no mercy from you,—I ask for none, I would take none. I claim only my right, and my right is death.”

“Then why did you give yourself up, if you knew death must be your fate?” asked Jackson.

“Death has not frightened me very much,” said Ned, contemptuously.

“There is something about you,” said Stonewall Jackson, “which makes me wish to respect you. I see you are not a coward.”

“And I wish you to see that I am not a liar,” answered Ned. “I gave myself up to death; and I wish you to bear witness, that, having sinned, I accepted the penalty.”

“But why sin?” said Stonewall Jackson.

“I will tell you why,” said Ned. “I have only one person in the world to care for: I have no family, no relatives, only this one friend. He was all the world to me, and I was something to him. When the war broke out, I enlisted, and he went with me. We have been side by side through everything. He saved my life in battle at the risk of his own; and a few weeks ago, when I was taken sick by fever, and he had a leave of absence, he gave up his home, he sacrificed everything, to watch by me. Last night he was taken sick while with the party at the bridge, when in another day he would have been with his mother at Washington. You paroled me. I was left there with him, and he raved and groaned until I could bear it no longer. Every word he said seemed to stab me to the heart. Then I saw the river and the boat; the men were scattered, and the means of escape were at hand. I hesitated. I thought of my parole; and then I thought of him a prisoner, an invalid, a corpse perhaps, if he waited here, while back of us his mother was hastening to meet her only son. He had given up so much for me, and what had I done for him? It seemed as if I must get him away; and then he cried out again, ‘Ned, Ned, won’t you help me?’ And I said, ‘Yes!’ And I knew that yes was death to me. Oh! you see I am prepared. I have not tried to arouse your sympathy or your compassion, I have only told you the bare facts. Do you think, if I hoped for life, if I cared for pardon from you, that I could not say more, that I could not pour out words of fire and blood to show you what our friendship is, and what last night’s temptation was? I ask no mercy; and you could give me none if you wished it: my act must bring its consequences. Only I wished you to see that I was neither liar nor coward; that, having forfeited my life, I did not evade the payment of my debt; in a word, that I was enough of a gentleman to be worthy of the great privilege of serving in my country’s cause.”

“Sir,” said Jackson, “you are not only a gentleman, but a soldier. I love war for itself, I glory in it; but it saddens me when it brings with it the useless sacrifice of such a life as yours.”

“I am not a soldier,” said Ned, quietly. “I hate war; I hate to have to long for the death of such a man as you are. But I am ready for all that, when there is a cause at stake.”

“A cause at stake!” said Stonewall Jackson. “Well, God be with the right!”

“God is with the right,” said Ned; “and time will show us which is the right. Ah! if I could live to see that time!”

“Be thankful rather,” said Jackson, “that you are going to die before you find you are in the wrong. I wish you had been with me in this campaign.”

“If it had been possible,” said Ned, and then he stopped.

“I should like,” said Stonewall Jackson, slowly, “though doubtless you consider me a rebel and a traitor, to have you shake hands with me.”

“Not with a rebel or a traitor,” said Ned, “but with a sincere and honest man whom I respect and honor;” and with this grasp of hands, these two great souls gazed in each other’s eyes.

“And now you know what I must say,” said Stonewall Jackson.

“I know it,” Ned replied.

“Do not think me cruel, do not think me lacking in human feeling,” Stonewall Jackson continued; “but war has its duties as well as peace. God help those who must execute these duties!”

“There is but one thing you can do,” said Ned, tranquilly.

“There is but one thing I can do,” repeated Jackson. “You will be shot at sunrise.” He called the men outside. “Give this gentleman,” he said, “as good accommodations as the camp affords. See that he is left by himself, and is undisturbed to-night.—All letters, all directions, which you may wish to give, shall be forwarded to the North,” he continued, addressing Ned; “and if you wish anything to be done about burial”—

“I shall wish nothing,” said Ned.

“In that case,” said Jackson, with princely courtesy, “I have only to say farewell.” He rose again, and took Ned’s hand; then the soldiers marched away, and he was left in his tent alone.