"We have just lost a splendid chance. I did flatter myself that there was going to be a row with England, on the Oregon question; but it was a flash in the pan; it all ended in smoke."
"Why do you want to fight with John Bull?" asked Morton.
"For two good reasons. In the first place, I hate him. I hate him in right of my French ancestors, and I hate him as a true American democrat. Then, over and above all that, a war with the English would be the making of me. I should rise then. I would be their Hannibal. But now we have nothing better to do than giving fits to these yellow Mexican vagabonds."
"A shabby employment," said Morton, "and yet I think I should like it."
"You would, ey?—then go with me to Mexico."
"It's a temptation," said Morton, his eyes lighted with a sudden gleam,—"I am in a mood for any thing, I do not care what."
"I knew there was something ailing you," said Rosny; "why, you have had no appetite. You've lost all your spirits. Has any thing happened? Are you ill?"
"Nothing to speak of. I am well enough in health."
"Well, come with me to Mexico. When a man is under a cloud, he always makes the better soldier for it. If you have had bad luck, why, you can fight like a Trojan."
"I could storm Hell Gates to-day," exclaimed Morton, giving a momentary vent to his long pent up emotion.