commander, and so perhaps gradually rising himself to command.

Such adventures were very common, knights often setting forth upon such
expeditions when dissatisfied with their own rulers, and they were
usually much welcomed as an addition to the strength of the camp they
sought. But there was this difference: that such knights carried with
them some substantial recommendation, either numerous retainers well
armed and accustomed to battle, considerable treasure, or at least a
reputation for prowess in the field. Felix had nothing to offer, and for
nothing nothing is given.

The world does not recognise intrinsic worth, or potential genius.
Genius must accomplish some solid result before it is applauded and
received. The unknown architect may say: "I have a design in my mind for
an impregnable castle." But the world cannot see or appreciate the mere
design. If by any personal sacrifice of time, dignity, or self-respect
the architect, after long years, can persuade someone to permit him to
build the castle, to put his design into solid stone which squadrons may
knock their heads against in vain, then he is acknowledged. There is
then a tangible result.

Felix was in the position of the architect. He believed he had ideas,
but he had nothing substantial, no result, to point to. He had therefore
but little hope of success, and his natural hauteur and pride revolted
against making application for enrolment which must be accompanied with
much personal humiliation, since at best he could but begin in the
common ranks. The very idea of asking was repugnant to him. The thought
of Aurora, however, drew him on.

The pride was false, he said to himself, and arose from too high an