For the priest—they had never seen him before; and as novelty in prison is thrice novelty, the various groups welcomed with an interested gaze the stout-built, rusty-black figure with a strong face, rosy and likable. “Holy Virgin!” said the priest. “If the South is any warmer than this, sure ye’ll be afther thanking the Saints and us for bringing you North! Are there any sons of the Church in sound of my voice?” There was one—a lieutenant in the last stages of consumption. He sat in the sun with a red spot in each cheek and eyes bright as a bird’s. The well-liked blue officer brought the priest to this boy. He was but nineteen, and evidently had not a month to live. “Good morning, Lieutenant!” said the officer. “Father Tierney’s a cordial in himself! And if, being a Catholic, you’d like—” “Were he twenty times a Ribil,” said Father Tierney, _sotto voce_, “he’s a sick human crathure and a dying man.” “Then I’ll leave you with him for a little,” said the officer, and walked away. “Peace go with you!” said Father Tierney. “My poor son, if you’ve done any harm in the flesh, the Lord having taken away the flesh will take away that, too.—You are not one of those who—” Father Tierney spoke for thirty seconds in a lowered voice. “No,” said the lieutenant, “I used to try, but I gave it up when I saw that I was going to get out anyhow. But a lot of us are still trying—There’s one over there that’s trying, I’m certain. He’s been awful good to me. If he could—if you could now—” “The man standing in the shadow of the wall?” The man standing in the shadow of the wall was only a stride or two away. The blue officers had their backs turned; the grey prisoners were listlessly minding their own business; guards and sentries had their eyes on their superiors. The sun blazed down, the green tree-top just nodded. “Good morning, my son,” said Father Tierney. “Good morning, Father.” Father Tierney took off his hat and with it fanned his rosy, open face. “Holy Virgin! ’Tis warmer here in the District than it is in Maryland—Maryland being my home, my son.” “Which half of Maryland, Father?” “The ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ half, my son.” “That,” said Stafford, “is the half that I like best. It is the nearest to Virginia.” “What,” said Father Tierney, “if ye had a wishing-cap, would ye wish for?” “Gold and a blue suit, Father.” “A uniform, ye mane?” “No. A hospital steward’s suit. Blue linen. I’ve got it worked out.” “My son,” said Father Tierney, in a brisk, full voice, “ye’ve a look of mortal fever! The Saints know it doesn’t become us to boast! But I was born with a bit of a medical faculty sticking sthraight out and looking grave.—Let me lay my finger on your pulse.” Stafford’s palm closed upon something hard and round and yellow. His eyes met the priest’s eyes.