he, "come in here, and make a hasty supper; you must be
in the saddle in half an hour."
"Quite ready, sir."
"I know it, my lad. Your orders are there: ride forward to Ettingen, and
prepare the billets for the fourth demi-brigade, which will reach that
village by to-morrow evening; you'll have time for something to eat, and
a glass of wine, before the orderly arrives. This piece of duty is
put on you, because a certain Captain Pichot, the only one of the
commissaries' department who can speak German, has just been put under
arrest for a duel he fought yesterday. I wish the court-marshal would
shoot the fellow, with all my heart and soul; he's a perfect curse to
the whole division. In any case, if he escape this time, I'll keep my
eye on him, and he'll scarce get clear through my hands, I'll warrant
him."
It may be supposed that I heard these words with no common emotion,
bearing as they did so closely on my own circumstances at the moment.
But I hung down my head and affected to eat, while the old general
walked hastily up and down the _salon_ muttering half aloud heavy
denunciations on the practice of duelling, which at any cost of life he
resolved to put down in his command.
"Done already! Why, man, you've eaten nothing. Well, then, I see the
orderly without; you've got a capital moonlight for your ride. And so,
_au revoir_."
"Good-by, sir," said I, as I sprang into the saddle. "And now for
Ettingen."
CHAPTER XLIII. THE MARCH ON THE DANUBE.
There is a strange, unnatural kind of pleasure felt sometimes in the
continued attacks of evil fortune: the dogged courage with which we bear
up against the ills of fate, swimming more strongly as the waves grow
rougher, has its own meed of consolation. It is only at such a time,
perhaps, that the really independent spirit of our natures is in the
ascendant, and that we can stand amid the storm, conscious of our
firmness, and bid the winds "blow and crack their cheeks." Yet, through
how many sorrows must one have waded, ere he reach this point! through
what trials must he have passed I how must hope have paled, and
flickered, and died out I how must all self-love, all ambition, all
desire itself have withered within us, till we become like the mere rock
amid the breakers, against which the waves beat in vain! When that hour
comes, the heart has grown cold and callous, the affections have dried
up, and man looks no more upon his fellow-men as brothers.
Towards
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