Shall I confess the truth? I was too consciously playing a part and
making a handsome exit. After all, had I not some little excuse?
. . . Here was I, young, lusty, healthful, with a man's career
before me, and across it, trenched at my feet, the grave. A saying
of Billy Priske's comes into my mind--a word spoken, years after,
upon a poor fisherman of Constantine parish whose widow, as by will
directed, spent half his savings on a tombstone of carved granite.
"A man," said Billy, "must cut a dash once in his lifetime, though
the chance don't come till he's dead." . . . Looking back across
these years I can smile at the boy I was and forgive his poor brave
flourish. But his speech was thoughtless: the woman (ah! but he
knows her better now) was withdrawn with its wound in her heart: and
between them Death was stepping forward to make the misunderstanding
final.
I remember setting my shoulder-blades firmly against the bole of the
tree. A kind of indignation sustained me; a scorn to be cut off
thus, a scorn especially for the two cowards by the doorway.
They were talking with the Commandant.
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