We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized days) when the most refined of _bas-bleus_ would rather see a strong, brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever conversationalist--ay, even than a perfect Christian--whose nerves are not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most utterly fearless man I ever knew had a _biceps_ that his own small fingers could have spanned. No woman, however--keeping the attributes of her sex--would think the worse of her champion for being trampled under foot when he had done his best to defend her. You know their province is to console, and even pet the vanquished; they make up lint for the wounded as readily as they weave laurels for the conquerors. But when they have once seen a man play the coward, the silver tongue, with all its eloquent explanation and honeyed pleadings, will hardly banish from their eyes the peculiar expression wavering betwixt compassion and contempt. They may forgive cruelty, or insolence, or even treachery--in time; but they can find no palliation, and little sympathy, for that one unpardonable sin. Truly, transgression in this line, beyond a certain point, may scarcely be excused; for weakness may be controlled, if not cured: if we can not be dashingly courageous, we may at least be decently collected: not all may aspire to the cross of valor, but it is not difficult to steer clear of courts-martial. A man is not pleasant to contemplate when terror has driven out all self-command; so we will not draw Mr. Fullarton's picture: he could scarcely stammer out words enough to suggest an immediate retreat. It was painful--_not_ ludicrous--to see how justly his own child appreciated the position: the little thing left her father's side instinctively, and clung for protection to Cecil Tresilyan. The latter saw instantly how matters stood; and if the glance she cast on the aggressor was not pleasant to meet, far more unendurable was that which fell upon her unlucky companion: it was piercing enough to penetrate the strong armor of his wonderful self-complacency, and to rankle for many a day. She struck her small foot on the ground with a gesture of imperial disdain. Even so the Scythian Amazon might have spurned the livid head of Cyrus the Great King. "I will not stir till I see if no one will come who can take my part. Ah! I would give--" "Don't be rash, Miss Tresilyan. You might be taken at your word."