Now, next day another Gaul was going down the street when he saw two goats being harnessed to a milk-cart. It at once occurred to him that it would be as well to throw off the Roman yoke. So another insurrection was started, and the Gallic chieftain who had no heart was put in the forefront of the battle. Just as the trumpets sounded for a charge, this Gallic chieftain remembered that he had left his handkerchief in the tent, and went to look for it in a hurry, and got himself disliked. But as the rest of the tribe were mostly killed in the charge, he did not mind that much. The survivors said: “Our noble chief has begun to be a coward.” But he was not afraid of his wife, and used bad language in her presence during mealtimes. One of the survivors went so far as to run a lance through the place where the chieftain’s heart ought to have been. The chieftain smiled, and said sarcastically that he was not an umbrella-stand. Death is connected with the stoppage of the heart’s action; consequently this chieftain never died, and it is argued that during the Syro-Phœnician attempt to---- * * * * * Here there is a hiatus in the manuscript. A scribe has added a note in the margin _pallido atramento_, “The chieftain is still alive. I have seen him. I have written his name at the foot of the manuscript.” I have looked there, and simply found the words “_Venditus iterum_.” But the other day I bought a cigar which was all case and no inwards. The tobacconist who sold it me said it was a Regalia Gallica; and he looked as if he had been in this world a long time, and had seen the wickedness of it. I simply mention this as a coincidence. There may be nothing in it, like the cigar. But it is a curious case, if nothing else--also like the cigar. V. A STORM ON THE BACKS; AND A STORY OF THREE. I have often considered it as one of my misfortunes that I simply do not know what fear is. As a boy I was so brave and bright that every one loved me; in my manhood my courage appals me. I feel that one day it will carry me too far. As I climbed hand-over-hand up the side of the _Zeitgeist_ at the Silver Street Docks, an old, old sailor stepped up to me. “Young stranger,” he said, “you will not attempt to make King’s Bridge on such a day as this? It would be madness. The boldest of us dare not.” “Avaunt!” I cried; “where honour calls I follow. England expects. _Per ardua ad astra._” He turned away to hide his emotion. I gave him my hand, which he wrung and knocked twice. There was no answer.