God
bless you."
In writing these simple words, Raynal's hard face worked, and his
mustache quivered, and once he had to clear his eye with his hand to
form the letters. He, the man of iron.
He who stood there, leaning on his scabbard and watching the writer, saw
this, and it stirred all that was great and good in that grand though
passionate heart of his.
"Poor Raynal!" thought he, "you were never like that before on going
into action. He is loath to die. Ay, and it is a coward's trick to let
him die. I shall have her, but shall I have her esteem? What will the
army say? What will my conscience say? Oh! I feel already it will gnaw
my heart to death; the ghost of that brave fellow--once my dear friend,
my rival now, by no fault of his--will rise between her and me, and
reproach me with my bloody inheritance. The heart never deceives; I feel
it now whispering in my ear: 'Skulking captain, white-livered soldier,
that stand behind a parapet while a better man does your work! you
assassinate the husband, but the rival conquers you.' There, he puts his
hand to his eyes.
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