Blanes, the legionary, as
romantic as the son of a merchant bent upon adventure should be, was
talking of the daring deeds of the troops of the Orient with all the
enthusiasm of his twenty-two years. There wasn't time to throw
themselves upon the Bulgarians with bayonets and arrive at
Adrianopolis. As a Catalan, this war in Macedonia was touching him very
close.

"We are going to avenge Roger de Flor," he said gravely.

And his uncle wanted to weep and to laugh before this simple faith
comparable only to the retrospective memory of the poet Labarta and
that village secretary who was always lamenting the remote defeat of
Ponza.

Blanes explained like a knight-errant the impulse that had called him
to the war. He wanted to fight for the liberty of all oppressed
nations, for the resurrection of all forgotten nationalities,--Poles,
Czechs, Jugo-Slavs.... And very simply, as though he were saying
something indisputable, he included Catalunia among the people who were
weeping tears of blood under the lashes of the tyrant. Thereupon his
companion, the Andalusian, burst forth indignantly. They passed their
time arguing furiously, exchanging insults and continually seeking each
other's company as though they couldn't live apart.

The Andalusian was not battling for the liberty of this or that people.
He had a longer range of vision. He was not near-sighted and egoistic
like his friend, "the Catalan." He was giving his blood in order that
the whole world might be free and that all monarchies should disappear.

"I am battling for France because it is the country of the great
Revolution. Its former history makes no difference to me, for we still
have kings of our own, but dating from the 14th of July, whatever
France is, I consider mine and the property of all mankind."

He stopped a few seconds, searching for a more concrete affirmation.

"I am fighting, Captain, because of Danton and Hoche."

Ferragut in his imagination saw the white, disheveled hair of Michelet
and the romantic foretop of Lamartine upon a double pedestal of volumes
which used to contain the story-poem of the Revolution.

"And I am also fighting for France," concluded the lad triumphantly,
"because it is the country of Victor Hugo."

Ulysses suspected that this twenty-year-old Republican was probably
hiding in his knapsack a blank book full of original verses written in
lead pencil.

The South American, accustomed to the disputes of his two companion