"Herbert, you know it is impossible."
"No, I do not know any such thing!"
"You know that I shall be tried to-day and shot tomorrow! Oh, Herbert, never let my dear ones at home know how I shall die. Tell them that I fell before Chepultepec—which will be literally true, you know. Oh, my mother! Oh, my dear Clara, shall I never see you more? Never hear your sweet voices calling me? Never feel the kind clasp of your hands again? Is this the end of a life of aspiration and endeavor? Is this the comfort and happiness I was to bring you?—early bereavement, dishonored names and broken hearts?"
"I tell you, no! You shall be saved! I say it!"
"Ah, it is impossible."
"No, it is only very difficult—so very difficult that I shall be sure to accomplish it!"
"What a paradox."
"It is a truth. Things difficult—almost to impossibility—can always be accomplished. Write that upon your tables, for it is a valuable truth. And no cheer up, for I bring you letters from Clara and your mother."
"Letters! from Clara! and mother! Oh, give them to me!" exclaimed the young man eagerly.
Herbert handed them, and Traverse eagerly broke the seals, one after another, and devoured the contents.