ay had been that
retribution was a laggard and blind. With these facts before him he
did not deem it necessary that he should become feverish over the
possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours. He could leave much to
chance. Besides, a faith in himself had secretly blossomed. There was
a little flower of confidence growing within him. He was now a man of
experience. He had been out among the dragons, he said, and he assured
himself that they were not so hideous as he had imagined them. Also,
they were inaccurate; they did not sting with precision. A stout heart
often defied, and defying, escaped.

And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods
and doomed to greatness?

He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle. As he
recalled their terror-struck faces he felt a scorn for them. They had
surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely necessary.
They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with discretion and
dignity.

He was aroused from this reverie by his friend, who, having hitched
about nervously and blinked at the trees for a time, suddenly coughed
in an introductory way, and spoke.

"Fleming!"

"What?"

The friend put his hand up to his mouth and coughed again. He fidgeted
in his jacket.

"Well," he gulped, at last, "I guess yeh might as well give me back
them letters." Dark, prickling blood had flushed into his cheeks and
brow.

"All right, Wilson," said the youth. He loosened two buttons of his
coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet. As he extended
it to his friend the latter's face was turned from him.

He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because during it
he had been trying to invent a remarkable comment upon the affair. He
could conjure nothing of sufficient point. He was compelled to allow
his friend to escape unmolested with his packet. And for this he took
unto himself considerable credit. It was a generous thing.

His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame. As he
contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and stout.
He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his acts; he
was an individual of extraordinary virtues.

He reflected, with condescending pity: "Too bad! Too bad! The poor
devil, it makes him feel tough!"

After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle pictures he had
seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the hearts