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 manœuvre 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.”