There was a pause.

“Ready!” said the Captain; “hold your teeth together.  When I say three, you act—­and act for life or death—­ONE—­TWO—­”

If he ever said three, I did not hear it; at the word “two” all my fears were gone.

“Well, my friend, how is it now?” he asked gently, even hesitatingly.

“Captain,” said; “I am your grateful servant.  I shall do my duty.”

“I knew, sir, that your will was only sleeping; you must excuse me for employing a disagreeable device in order to arouse it.  If I may make a suggestion, I would now beg, while you are in the vein, that you will encourage henceforth, the companionship of the men.”

“It will be a pleasure to do so, hereafter, Captain.”

“And I am delighted with this little episode, sir,” said he; “I am sincerely glad that the thought of confiding in me presented itself to your mind, since the result seems so wholesome.”

“Good night, Captain,” said I.

But he did not let me leave without thus having reasserted his character as my commander.

“Go back and get all the sleep you can; you will have need for all your physical strength to-morrow—­and after.”

I was almost happy.

XXV

IN THE GREAT BATTLE

“If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,
Thou’lt not believe thy deeds; but I’ll report it.” 
—­SHAKESPEARE.

It is said that a word may change a life.  Actually?  No, not of itself; the life which is changed must be ready for the word, else we were creatures dominated by our surroundings.

I had been a fragment,—­a sort of moral flotsam cast up by an unknown sea,—­and I had found a rude harbour in Company H. If I touched a larger world, it was only through the medium of the company in its relations to that world.  I had formed some attachments,—­ties which have lasted through life thus far, and will always last,—­but these attachments were immediate only, and, so far as I felt, were almost baseless; for not directly could I see and feel what was felt by the men I loved.  Outside the narrow bounds of the company my world was all abstract.  I fought for that world, for it appealed to my reason; but it was with effort that I called before my mind that world, which was a very present help to every other man.  The one great fact was war; the world was an ideal world rather than a reality.  And I frequently felt that, although the ideal after all is the only reality, yet that reality to me must be lacking in the varying quality of light, and the delicate degrees of sweetness and truth which home and friends and all the material good of earth were said to assume for charming their possessors.  The day brought me into contact with men; the night left me alone with myself.  In my presence men spoke of homes far away, of mothers, of sisters, of wives and children.  I could see how deep was the interest which moved them