Griffith had almost forgotten why he was here. It all came back to him. He began to breathe hard. "I have acted, I have helped," he said, moving toward the window. "When you came in the room I was looking through those fine glasses of yours at that bridge, across which I came in fifty-three, self-exiled, hastening to escape from the bondage of ownership, and, at the last, from the legal penalty of leaving behind me two freed, runaway negroes." He had lifted the glasses to his eyes again. "I thought then that I had done my full duty--_all_ of it. But since then I have given my three sons to you--to my country. They----" Mr. Lincoln's muscular hand rested on Griffith's shoulder. "Look at that bridge again. Do you see any dead men on it? Do you see young sons like your own dragging bleeding limbs across it? Do you see terror-stricken horses struggling with and trampling down those wounded boys? Do you see----" Griffith turned to look at him, in surprise. "No," he said, "nothing of the kind. There are a few soldiers moving about down this side, but there's nothing of that kind." He offered the glasses to the President, who waved them away. "I don't need them!" and an inexpressibly sad expression crossed his face. "I don't need them. I have seen it. I saw it all one day. I saw it all that night as it trailed past here. I heard the groans. The blood was under that window. I have seen it! I have seen nothing else since. If you have never seen a panic of wounded men, pray to your God that you never may!" The sorrowful voice was attuned now to the sorrowful, the tragic face. "Do you see that lounge over there?" He pointed to the other side of the room. "Men think it is a great thing to be a President of a great nation--and so it is, so it is; yet for three nights while you slept peacefully in your bed I lay there, when I wasn't reading telegrams or receiving messages, not knowing what would come next--waiting to be ready for whatever it might be." He had not finished presenting the case in a light in which he felt sure it would touch the character of the man before him. "Are your small personal needs paramount to those of your country? Have you no patriotism? Have you no _mercy_ upon our soldiers? Must more hundreds of them suffer defeat and death for the lack of what _you_ can give them? Are you willing to receive the benefits of a free country which you are not willing to help in her hour of greatest need? Can you--do you--want to leave your young sons and the sons of your neighbors on the far side of the dead line marked by that bridge?" The allusion was a chance one, but it struck home. Griffith put out his hand. "What do you want me to do?" he gasped, hoarsely.