"O my dear little mother, you mustn't do that!" he protested, seizing
her hands and lifting her to her feet. "You mustn't kneel to me, I'm not
God--I'm just a distracted man praying from hour to hour and day to day
for wisdom to do what's right! I can't stand this--you mustn't do such
things--they kill me!"
He threw his big hands into the air with a gesture of despair, his face
corpse-like in its ashen agony. He took a step from her and leaned
against the long table in the centre of the room for support.
Betty whispered something in the mother's ear and led her near again.
"If you'll just give my boy to me alive," she went on in low anguish,
"I'll take him home and keep him there and I'll pledge my life that he
will never again take up arms against the Union----"
"You can guarantee me that?" he interrupted, holding her gaze.
"I'm sure of it. He's noble, high-spirited, the soul of honor. He was
always good and never gave me an hour's sorrow in his life until this
war came----"
The long arm suddenly swung toward his Secretary:
"Have the prisoner, Ned Vaughan, brought here immediately. When he
comes, Madam, I'll see what can be done."
With a sob of joy the mother leaned against Betty, who took her out into
the air until the wagon from the jail should come.
They had led Ned quickly into the President's office before his mother
and Betty knew of his arrival.
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