around him, hardly answers the old man's questions, and his eyes, vaguely
lost in space, seem to be seeking there for the solution of some problem.

I seem to see a twitching in the gray moustaches of the veteran; he stops
abruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm:

"They all pity me," says he, "because they do not understand it; but if I
were to answer them--"

"What would you say to them, father?" asks the young man, with
curiosity.

"I should say first to the woman who weeps when she looks at me, to keep
her tears for other misfortunes; for each of my wounds calls to mind some
struggle for my colors. There is room for doubting how some men have
done their duty; with me it is visible. I carry the account of my
services, written with the enemy's steel and lead, on myself; to pity me
for having done my duty is to suppose I would better have been false to
it."

"And what would you say to the countryman, father?"

"I should tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, we must first secure
the country itself; and that, as long as there are foreigners ready to
eat our harvest, there must be arms to defend it."

"But the young student, too, shook his head when he lamented such a use
of life."

"Because he does not know what self-sacrifice and suffering can teach.