(What's like
A boy's love for some famous man?) . . . Oh, to strike
A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance
Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France,
And so fall in his glorious regard! . . . Oft, how oft,
Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft
The dim battle that plume dance and dart--never seen
So near till this moment! how eager to glean
Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise
Of his hero--each tale of old venturous days
In the desert! And now . . . could he speak out his heart
Face to face with that man ere he died!
XXXIII.
With a start
The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him,
To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dim
Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din
And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within,
Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun
(Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun)
Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plume
Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloom
Which momently put out the world.
XXXIV.
To his side
Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . "Ah!" . . . he sigh'd,
"The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes,
All the mother's! The old things again!
"Do not rise.
You suffer, young man?"
THE BOY.
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