you marched, fought, and ported arms, under strange skies,
through unrecorded years. At last, at long last,
your opportunity would come, when the horrors of war were
flickering through the quiet country-side where you were cradled
and bred, but where the memory of you had long been dim. Folk
would run together, clamorous, palsied with fear; and among the
terror-stricken groups would figure certain aunts. "What hope is
left us?" they would ask themselves, "save in the clemency of the
General, the mysterious, invincible General, of whom men tell
such romantic tales?" And the army would march in, and the guns
would rattle and leap along the village street, and, last of all,
you--you, the General, the fabled hero--you would enter, on your
coal-black charger, your pale set face seamed by an interesting
sabre-cut. And then--but every boy has rehearsed this familiar
piece a score of times. You are magnanimous, in fine--that goes
without saying; you have a coal-black horse, and a sabre-cut,
and you can afford to be very magnanimous. But all the same
you give them a good talking-to.

This pleasant conceit simply ravished my soul for some twenty
minutes, and then the old sense of injury began to well up
afresh, and to call for new plasters and soothing syrups. This
time I took refuge in happy thoughts of the sea. The sea was my
real sphere, after all. On the sea, in especial, you could
combine distinction with lawlessness, whereas the army seemed to
be always weighted by a certain plodding submission to
discipline. To be sure, by all accounts, the life was at first a
rough one. But just then I wanted to suffer keenly; I wanted to
be a poor devil of a cabin boy, kicked, beaten, and sworn at--for
a time. Perhaps some hint, some inkling of my sufferings might