shall cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be
only a tragedy."

"What matters to me the glory of the moment?" answered Milton. "I think
not of success. I sing because I feel myself a poet. I go whither
inspiration leads me. Its path is ever the right one. If these verses
were not to be read till a century after my death, I should write them
just the same."

"I admire them before they are written," said the young officer. "I see
in them the God whose innate image I have found in my heart."

"Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?" asked the poet.

"I am Rene Descartes," replied the soldier, gently.

"How, sir!" cried De Thou. "Are you so happy as to be related to the
author of the Princeps?"

"I am the author of that work," replied Rene.

"You, sir!--but--still--pardon me--but--are you not a military man?"
stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.

"Well, what has the habit of the body to do with the thought? Yes, I
wear the sword. I was at the siege of Rochelle. I love the profession
of arms because it keeps the soul in a region of noble ideas by the
continual feeling of the sacrifice of life; yet it does not occupy the
whole man. He can not always apply his thoughts to it. Peace lulls
them. Moreover, one has also to fear seeing them suddenly interrupted by