"All that is very well said," quoth the Captain, "but it did not strike me. What I have seen in this book is courage. Here is a poor creature rolling on the carpet with agony; from childhood to death tortured by a mysterious incurable malady--a malady that is described as 'an internal apparatus of torture;' and who does, by his heroism, more than _bear_ it--he puts it out of power to affect him; and though (here is the passage) 'his appointment by day and by night was incessant pain, yet high enjoyment was, notwithstanding, the law of his existence.' Robert Hall reads me a lesson--me, an old soldier, who thought myself above taking lessons--in courage, at least. And, as I came to that passage when, in the sharp paroxysms before death, he says, 'I have not complained, have I, sir?--and I won't complain,'--when I came to that passage I started up, and cried, 'Roland de Caxton, thou hast been a coward! and, an thou hadst had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered, broken, and drummed out of the regiment long ago!" "After all, then, my father was not so wrong--he placed his guns right, and fired a good shot." "He must have been from 6° to 9° above the crest of the parapet," said my uncle, thoughtfully--"which, I take it, is the best elevation, both for shot and shells, in enfilading a work." "What say you, then, Captain? up with our knapsacks, and on with the march!" "Right about--face!" cried my uncle, as erect as a column. "No looking back, if we can help it." "Full in the front of the enemy--'Up, guards, and at 'em!'" "'England expects every man to do his duty!"' "Cypress or laurel!" cried my uncle, waving the book over his head. CHAPTER XLV.