e nation's spirit. Then crime must be opposed by crime?
To avoid the crime of submission we must commit the crime of killing? It
seems so--but why? But why? Ah! yes; I think I see; it is because the
spirit of the nation is not equal to the spirit of the world. The
world-idea forbids killing and forbids submission, and demands life and
freedom for all; the spirit of the nation is not so unselfish; the
spirit of the nation exalts so-called patriotism; the world-spirit
raises high the principle of philanthropy universal. The country has not
developed the world-idea, and will not, except feebly; but she will at
last, and will be loyal to the spirit of the world. Then, unless I am
sustained by a greater power, I cannot go contrary to the spirit of the
South. I must kill and must be killed.

But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less
readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies--coming to me I know
not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and
unique--comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force
me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.

I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and
walked through long lines of sleeping men--men who on the morrow might
be still more soundly sleeping.

Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I
approached. He spoke kindly, "Jones, you should be asleep."

"Captain," I said; "I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot."

"Let us sit down," said he; "and we will talk it over by ourselves."

His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the
men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was
very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more
courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood
well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me
to unburden.

"Captain," I said, "I fear."

"May I ask what it is that you fear?"

"I fear that I am a coward."

"Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?"

"I have never been tried, and I dread the test."

"But," said he; "you must have forgotten. You were in a close place when
you were hurt. No coward would have been where you were, if the truth
has been told."

"That was not I; I am now another man."

"Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread."

"Proving a coward," I replied.

"You fear tha