"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 six to nine degrees 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 VII.