sand that this beloved girl was lavishing on
him. I was near her, and tried two or three times to get started on some
of the things that I had done in those battles--and I felt ashamed of
myself, too, for stooping to such a business--but she cared for nothing
but his battles, and could not be got to listen; and presently when
one of my attempts caused her to lose some precious rag or other of
his mendacities and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing on a new
engagement, of course, and increasing the havoc and carnage tenfold, I
felt so humiliated by this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up
and tried no more.

The others were as outraged by the Paladin's selfish conduct as I
was--and by his grand luck, too, of course--perhaps, indeed, that was the
main hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which was natural,
for rivals become brothers when a common affliction assails them and a
common enemy bears off the victory.

Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it
were not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others no
chance. I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it--a poem in which I
most happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl's charms, without
mentioning her name, but any one could see who was meant; for the bare
title--"The Rose of Orleans"--would reveal that, as it seemed to me. It
pictured this pure and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude
soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes upon the horrid
machinery of death, and then--note this conceit--it blushes for the sinful
nature of man, and turns red in a single night. Becomes a red rose, you
see--a rose that was white before. The idea was my own, and quite new.
Then it sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city, and when the
beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and wept. This
was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the poem; then
I put her into the similitude of the firmament--not the whole of it, but
only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all the constellations
were following her about, their hearts in flames for love of her, but
she would not halt, she would not listen, for 'twas thought she loved
another. 'Twas thought she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who was upon
the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutilation in the bloody
field, waging relentless war against a heartless foe to save her from
an all too early grave, a