"Were you ever wounded in battle?" I asked. "I was struck only once,
and it amounted to nothing. It was in the same battle. A pigeon became
so frightened by the smoke and racket that it flew hither and thither,
and finally perched on my shoulder. While there a musket ball struck its
claw at the junction of the toes with the leg, and entered my shoulder.
The resistance it met was so tough that it saved my shoulder from being
shattered; except for that, the hurt must have proved serious, but it
did not bother me at all."

The Admiral, still loosely holding the weapon in his hand, turned his
faded eyes toward the window and gazed out over the snow. Those eyes
seemed to look backward over the vista of forty, fifty, sixty, seventy,
eighty years, and must have recalled the many stirring scenes in which
he had taken part, as well as the faces of the brave fellows, like
himself, who had gone from earth long ago, leaving him alone. Then the
old veteran, still erect and with the fires of patriotism glowing in his
brave heart, softly murmured:

"I have been more fortunate than I deserve; strange that I should be the
only one left, but it cannot be for long."

And yet he lived for seven more years. Then, when a scirrhus cancer
appeared on his tongue, a skilful surgeon told him it could be easily
removed and need cause him no trouble.

"Oh," said the Admiral, who was then past ninety, "I've lived long
enough; let it alone."

He died a few months later, and, as has been stated, was in his
ninety-second year.