Sword and Gown | Page 7

the terrible "Engaged," let us not gnash suicidally our few remaining
teeth, even though Brabazon Leslie--all the handsomer for the scar on
his smooth forehead--should come up upon our traces, and ride
roughshod over those hieroglyphics, as he did at Balaclava through
Russian squadrons. Rather let us try to sympathize with his triumph,
while he carries off his beautiful prize from under the enemy's guns, as
Dundonald may have cut out a frigate beneath the batteries of Vera
Cruz. Non omnia corripit ævum. Hath the savor departed wholly from
the Gascon wine, because the name of no living love crowns the
draught? Shall we stay sullenly at home when all the world is flocking
to the tournament, because our limbs have stiffened so that we may no
longer sit saddlefast, and hold our own in the mêlée? A corner in the
cushioned gallery is left to us still. Come, comrade of mine--nate
mecum Consule Manlio--we will go up and lounge there among the
Chatelaines: some may be found good-natured enough to listen (in the
pauses of the tilting), while we tell how, not so many years back, plume
and pennon went down before our lance.
I place no great reliance on the Pleasures of Memory. But, if pearls and
bright shells be rarely found there, surely waifs, better than echini and
sting-rays, are to be gathered on the "shores of long ago." Ah, cynic!
you are strong enough to be merciful--just this once. Spare us the string
of examples that would overwhelm us utterly. Does it not suffice that
we confess the truth of that saddest adage, tolled in our ears by every
passing bell,
Those whom the gods love well die young?
Royston and his companion were crossing the terrace on their way
home when the former stopped suddenly.
"Go on, Hal," he said; "it is too late for you to be standing about, but I
must speak to that poor Châteaumesnil. I shall see you at dinner." He
went up to a wheeled chair that was being drawn by at the time.

Its occupant was a man of large frame, as far as could be made out
through the thick wrappings of furs; his head was bent forward and low,
resting on his hands, that were crossed on a crutch-handle. He appeared
profoundly unconscious of all that was passing, and never moved till
Keene addressed him. Then, very slowly, he lifted up his face. Few of
us, fortunately for those who have strong imaginations and weak nerves,
see its like twice in a lifetime, or there would be wild work in
dreamland.
It was not distorted in any way, nor deformed, except by a ghastly, livid
pallor; gaunt and drawn as the features were, they still bore evident
traces of a rare manly beauty, that even the neglected beard of iron-gray
could not conceal. But it was the savage face of one who has wrestled
with physical pain till it has assumed almost the visible and tangible
shape of a personal enemy--a mocking devil, that always is ready, with
fresh ingenuity of torture, to answer and punish the rebellious question,
"Art thou come to torment me before my time?" The lines on the
forehead were so strongly marked and dreadfully distinct, that, like the
markings of the locust, they seemed to form characters that might be
read, if it were given to mortal cabalists to decipher the handwriting of
God.
Look once more: it is worth while, if you are curious in contrasts and
comparisons. Five years ago that bowed, blasted cripple was the most
reckless dare-devil, the most splendid Paladin, in all the army of
Algiers; the man for whom, after an unusually brilliant exploit, St.
Arnaud, loving him as his own right hand, could find no higher praise
than to write in his dispatches, "Les 3me Chasseurs se sont conduits en
héros; leur chef-d'escadron en--Châteaumesnil." And it was true that
the annals of his house could boast of no nobler soldier, though they
had been fighting hard since Clovis's day. His name is known very well
in Africa. The spahis talk of it still over their watch-fires, and the wild
Bedouins load it with guttural curses--their lips white with hatred and
remembered fear: they do not forget how far and fast they fled into
their desert strong-holds, and never could shake off the light cloud of
whirling dust that told how Armand and his stanch gaze-hounds were
hard upon their trail.

Rheumatic fever, coming close on a severe bullet wound, had brought
him very near to death; and the first thing he heard when he began to
recover, was that he would never stand upright again.
He is answering Keene's salutation.
"My friend, you failed us last night at the Cercle, and yet we waited for
you long."