Brinton opened his mouth as though to protest against this peculiar version of the affair. Before he could speak Scott continued: “Or am I to believe that General Taylor so far forgot himself as to send the message you delivered to-day? If so, in my report to the President I shall embody--” “No, no!” exclaimed Brinton, covertly moistening his cracked lips and seeking to rally his benumbed brain to a comprehension of what was going on. “Then,” pursued Scott, “you do acknowledge that in war-time you deliberately suppressed the message sent by one general to another and that you willfully substituted--” “Y-yes, sir,” muttered Brinton. “Very good. As an officer of the United States army you are familiar, Colonel Brinton, with the articles of war?” “Yes, sir.” “You know the penalty attaching to such a military crime as you confess you have committed?” Brinton squared his shoulders, raised his pain-crazed head, and made answer: “Yes, sir.” Scott paused for an instant as though to let the fact sink in, then was off on a new theme. “How old are you, Colonel Brinton?” he asked. “Forty-one, sir.” “A West Pointer?” “No, sir. Militia. I raised a cavalry company in Ideala, Ohio, at the outbreak of the present war. I am a merchant there.” “You are married?” “I was married, sir.” “A widower? You have children?” “One son, sir--and one grandson.” “Grandson!” “I married at nineteen,” answered Brinton, sorely puzzled at this odd trend of the queries. “My son married at twenty. His son was born since I left Ideala.” “Colonel Brinton,” resumed Scott, “for the sake of your son, and for the grandson you have never yet seen, I am inclined to be merciful in dealing with you. For insubordination, for insulting the general commanding, for malicious substitution of a verbal dispatch, a court martial would unquestionably condemn you to a long term of imprisonment, if not to death. Are you content to waive court martial and to leave your punishment to my discretion?” “Yes, sir,” replied Brinton, the reaction and nausea from his recent spree once more dulling his mind almost to coma. “I--I understand the idea,” he went on sleepily. “You don’t want to make a martyr of me and have the story told all over America. You prefer to kick me out of the army with no fuss and feathers.” He spoke almost subconsciously, not realizing in his momentary numbness of brain that he was thinking aloud. Scott’s carefully repressed rage broke its bounds at hearing his motives so mercilessly voiced. Nor did Brinton’s unlucky use of the phrase “fuss and feathers”--Scott’s favorite nickname among his swarm of enemies--soften matters. “Colonel Brinton!” roared the general, getting to his feet. “You are a disgrace to the uniform of the United States army, and to the mother who bore you. You are a disgrace to the flag, and this day you have made your army and its general a laughing stock before their enemies. You are a drunkard and an incompetent; unfit to wear a uniform!”