"My name is Roger Musgrave," he said; "I have been brought up as heir to my godfather, a man supposed rich. With him I have lived most of my life--we two. He was more than a father to me: but he is dead, and died poor. There is nothing left of the supposed inheritance--worse than that; but that is all that relates to me," he cried, suddenly pausing with a gasp of restrained grief. "The people here exhaust their kind feelings to me in reproaches upon him who has left me unprovided for. False reproaches!--insults to me as much as to him! He is gone, and all control of me, all love for me, have died in his grave. I have myself to support, and his honour to reclaim. I ask you how I am to do it best--must it be as a labourer at home, or as a soldier abroad?" "But you have given me no reason why your choice should be limited to these two trades," said Colonel Sutherland; "there are many things besides which such a young man as yourself can do better than either. Come, you are very young--you are arbitrary and impatient. The profession of arms can only carry a man on and forward in time of war. You are thinking of Napoleon's soldiers, those men who might possibly carry a marshal's baton in their knapsacks; but you forget that the first thing required is not the soldiers, but the Napoleon--and things were never so in the English army, my young friend. Even in times of war, not one man in a thousand rises from the ranks--no, not even in India--not in the Company's service. Don't deceive yourself. Don't you know that even the old women in the village break their hearts when their sons enlist, and declare that anything would be better? I don't say _that_. I am a soldier myself; but they are nearer the truth than you." "Is it then only the alternative of despair?" cried the young man.