"He was a regular hero in the war," Miss Brown concluded,
"and he certainly is a perfect gentleman; what a pity he hasn't
got any sense!"

She had guessed aright, although she had not guessed deep enough
in regard to Nelson. He watched the great wheels of light,
he watched the river aflame with Greek fire, then, with a shiver,
he watched the bombs bursting into myriads of flowers,
into fizzing snakes, into fields of burning gold, into showers
of jewels that made the night splendid for a second and faded.
They were not fireworks to him; they were a magical phantasmagoria
that renewed the incoherent and violent emotions of his youth;
again he was in the chaos of the battle, or he was dreaming
by his camp-fire, or he was pacing his lonely round on guard.
His heart leaped again with the old glow, the wonderful,
beautiful worship of Liberty that can do no wrong.
He seemed to hear a thousand voices chanting:

"In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!"


His turbid musings cleared--or they seemed to him to clear--
under the strong reaction of his imagination and his memories.
It was all over, the dream and the glory thereof.
The splendid young soldier was an elderly, ruined man.
But one thing was left: he could be true to his flag.

"A poor soldier, but enlisted for the war," says Nelson,
squaring his shoulders, with a lump in his throat and his