"One night, a month ago, my woman--she's a great woman, Mr. President--the sick folks down in my country call her 'The Angel of Lonesome Hill'--well, she had a dream that Bill Hartsell wanted to see me. I hadn't laid eyes on him for years. I strapped on my six-shooter and she said, 'No--it isn't that kind of a trip--it's peace.' "I put down the shootin' iron and went--it was a long way--two days on horseback. I got to Bill's cabin at night; I went in without a knock; I wasn't afraid. Bill's folks were round the bed. He arose and cried out: 'John, I sent for you; it was a damn lie I told--your boy didn't do it'--and then Bill died." For the moment the old man's agitation mastered him. "I remember, Mr. Dale. 'Ves' told me; he brought the statements of the family--and yours. I've been thinking of it ever since--and a great deal these last two days. Tell me, why did you happen to come?" "Mother had a dream that said the time was up." Dale spoke as calmly as though delivering a message from a neighbor. Fear was not even a memory now. He stood erect; the stone he had slowly pushed up many steep years was near the summit--one mighty effort might hurl it down the past forever. "Just a word about that boy, Mr. President. At Cold Harbor his regiment stood in hell all day; he was one of those who pinned his name to his coat so his body could be identified--after the charge. Well, in that charge the flag went down, and a man went out to get it--and he fell; then another--and he fell; and then a thin, pale fellow that the doctors almost refused sprang forward like a panther--and he fell. They were askin' for a volunteer when a staff officer called out: 'Good God! He's alive! He's got it! He's crawlin' back!' "They had to lift him off the colors; he didn't know anything, . . . and that was my boy, Mr. President--that was Dick! "Funny how he enlisted," Dale resumed after a moment. "He'd been tryin' to get in, but I kept him out. One night his mother sent him for a dime's worth of clothes-line--and he never came back. He's not bad, Mr. President; he's good--he gets it from his mother." Dale lifted his head with pride: "When I was on the jury I heard Judge Long say no one could be punished if their name wasn't written in the indictment. Now, they didn't only convict Dick--they convicted his mother--this whole world's her prison--and it's illegal, Mr. President--her name wasn't written in that indictment--and it's her pardon I want." The President arose and walked the floor. "How could the man who saved those colors shoot a comrade in his sleep? Mr. Dale, my faith in human nature tells me that's a lie!" He stood for an instant at the window, looking over the fountain, the river, the tall white Washington needle which pierced the sky, then quickly stepped to the table and lifted a glass: "Mr. Dale, I propose a toast--'The Angel of Lonesome Hill' . . . her liberty!" * * * * *