"And why not?"--so his thoughts ran,--"why not obey what fate and nature dictate? Calm, and peace, and happiness,--farewell to them! That stake is played and lost. I am no more fit now for domestic life than a prairie wolf. I should answer better for an Ishmaelite or a Pawnee. _Deus vult._ Why should I fly in the face of Providence?" Rosny, his uniform coat half unbuttoned for the sake of ease, sat lolling back in his chair, puffing wreaths of cigar smoke from his lips, eying Morton as he paced the room, and throwing out, from time to time, a word of encouragement to stimulate his resolution. He was about to lose all patience at his companion's pertinacious silence, when the latter stopped, and turned towards him with the air of one whose mind is made up. "Dick," said Morton, "when I was in college, I laid down my plan of life, and adopted one maxim--to which I mean to hold fast." "Well, what was that?" demanded the impatient Rosny. "Never to abandon an enterprise once begun; to push on till the point is gained, in spite of pain, delay, danger, disappointment,--any thing." "Good, so far. What next?" "Some years ago, I entered upon certain plans, which have not yet been accomplished. I have been interrupted, balked, kicked and cuffed by fortune, till I am more than half disgusted with the world. But I mean still to take up the broken thread where I left it, and carry it forward as before." "The moral of that is, I suppose, that you won't go to Mexico." "Precisely." "Well, I shan't try to debate the matter with you. I know you of old. When your foot is once down, it's useless for me to try to make you lift it up again. But remember what I say,--you will repent not taking my advice." Rosny finished his cigar, and they left the restaurant together. On their way up the street, they stopped at a recruiting office. "Captain Rumbold, my friend Mr. Morton," said Rosny, who soon after, however, entered into an earnest conversation with the officer upon some affair of business, leaving Morton at leisure to observe six or eight volunteers, who were about to be sent to Governor's Island, in charge of a sergeant. "What do you think of our boys?" asked Rosny, casting a comical look at Morton, as they went down stairs. "I never saw such a gang of tobacco-chewing, soap-locked rascals." "Food for powder," said Rosny, "they'll fill a ditch as well as better. The country needs a little blood-letting. These fellows are not like Falstaff's, though. They will fight. Not a man of them but will whip his weight in wildcats." CHAPTER LI. A raconter ses maux, souvent on les soulage.--_Polyeucte_. "Do you remember Buckland?" asked Rosny, as they walked up Broadway. "The Virginian? Yes, perfectly." "There he is."