compassionate heart.

Is it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war - an enemy who has
surprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades - an
enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its
numbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint,
and saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising,
falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand
fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested
on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy
soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.

It was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth,
his hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the
trigger; mind, heart and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound.
He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him
dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was
plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush - without warning, without
a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken
prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no - there is a hope; he may
have discovered nothing; perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the
landscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the
direction whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the
instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well be that his
fixity of attention - Druse turned his head and looked through the
deeps of air downward as from the surface of the bottom of a translucent
sea. He saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures
of men and horses - some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers
of his escort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a
hundred summits!