“No more you were—more’s the pity! Those were glorious times, and, in spite of my years, I do not regret having been born early in the century. Life is too tame now, all bread and butter and explosive machines. Give me the good old days of hand-to-hand combat, lots of adventure, rows galore, and the devil take the hindmost.” “I never met such a man as you, uncle.” “Then you never met yourself. I don’t mean your _doppelganger_, but your inner self, for you are exactly what I was, though how the deuce your father ever came to have such a son, I do not know. He was as mild as milk, my brother Austin.” “Was he?” said Maurice grimly, thinking of the many family rows that had taken place. “Oh, I don’t deny he had a spice of the Roylands temper, but as to ambition and enterprise, he might as well have been born a carrot. Why, he nearly ruined you, my boy, with neglecting to put you on the right track—no wonder you got melancholia and all that rubbish. You are a worker, not a dreamer.” “I have brains, I suppose?” “Yes, and so has Crispin; but he uses his brains in the right way, you don’t. Crispin is born to sit down and tinkle a lute, you are born to handle a sword and lead an exciting career. Why didn’t you go into the army?” “My father wouldn’t let me.” “Of course!” said Justinian, with a snort of disdain; “he wanted to make you a mollycoddle like himself. I wonder you did not go out of your mind in that smoky London, chipping away at marble and cutting it out. Why, you have been here only a couple of months, and already you are in your right mind. Go back to England indeed!—you are a fool if you do. Like myself, you are born to be a ruler, not a unit in English civilization. I’m glad I got you to myself before it was too late.” “Well, if my career has begun late, I am at least young, and have a long life before me.” “Yes; I envy you that, Maurice. Look at me! youthful in spirit, old in years. I shall die in the prime of my spiritual strength, just because my wretched body is of an inferior quality to my soul.” “Still you are good for a few years yet. And, uncle, don’t you think it would be wise of you not to expose yourself in battle?” “What!” roared the old Demarch in a voice of thunder; “stay in the background! Never while I can handle a sword. I’m not going to let every one else have the fun, and leave myself out of it. Why, this coming war in a teacup is the first bit of amusement I have had for years, and yet you grudge it to me.” “I don’t want you to be killed, uncle.” “Oh, I’ll look after myself, never you be afraid! I won’t live any the longer for wrapping myself up in cotton wool, and if I die, why, like Tennyson’s farmer, I die, but I’ll have one stirring fight before I give up the ghost.” “You have the Baresark fury in you, uncle.”