"I would rather," he continued, after a pause, "rather it had been my
fate to fall upon the field of battle. True, death is not alluring in
any shape, but that appears to me most preferable. I would choose it
rather than linger on. Nay, I have chosen it. Ten times have I thus
challenged death--gone half-way to meet it; but like a coward, or a coy
bride, it refuses to meet _me_."
There was something almost unearthly in the laugh that accompanied these
last words--a strange simile--a strange man!
I could scarce make an effort to cheer him. In fact, he needed no
cheering: he seemed happier than before. Had it not been so, my poor
speech, assuring him of his robust looks, would have been words thrown
away. He knew they were but the false utterances of friendship.
I even suspected it myself. I had already noticed the pallid skin--the
attenuated fingers--the glazed and sunken eye. This, then, was the
canker that was prostrating that noble spirit--the cause of his deep
melancholy. I had assigned to it one far different.
The future of his sister had been the heaviest load upon his heart. He
told me so as we moved onward.
I need not repeat the promises I then made to him. It was not necessary
they should be vows: my own happiness would hinder me from breaking
them.