On the tenth day of November, 1865, a pale, black-whiskered little man named Henry Wirz, a used-up captain in the used-up army of the late Confederate States of America, walked through a door in the Old Capitol Prison at Washington, climbed thirteen wooden steps, and stood under the heavy crossbeam of a scaffold, a greased noose about his neck. Un the platform with him—with him, but separated from him by the im mcnse gap which sets apart those who are going to live from those who are about to die—there was a starchy major in the Federal Army. To this major Captain Wirz turned, extended his hand, and offered his pardon for the thing which the Federal major, detailed to take charge of a hanging squad, was about to do.

“I know what orders arc, Major,” said Captain Wirz. “I am being hung for obeying them.”

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