“Morgan ought to hold his tongue, and not put vain notions into your head.”
“But he said it was glorious, father.”
He looked at me sadly, and sighed.
“I am a soldier, George,” he said; “but I am afraid that I have very little belief in what people call glory. In too many cases the brilliancy of the glory is dulled with blood and horror too terrible to be spoken of without a shudder. It is glorious to fight in defence of your country, its women and children, or to fight here for our homes; and while I have strength to lift a sword, or voice and knowledge to lead and direct others in such a cause, I will, if it is necessary, fight again. But after what I have been through and seen, I am ready to go down on my knees and pray the God of love and peace and mercy that neither I nor you may ever see sword flashed or shot fired in anger while we live.”
He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, cheerfully—
“Come, what did the Latin writer say about a man defending his own country?”
“‘Dulce et decorum est—’” I said, promptly, and then stopped short. “I forget the rest, father.”
He laughed.
“Our life out here, as the pioneers of a new civilisation, is not conducive to the study of the classics, my boy. It’s a rough school, where we have to take care to avoid fevers, and meet Indians, and are threatened with Spanish aggression, and have to fight for our lives against a flood. But there, we have drifted into a very serious talk.”
“But I like it, father,” I said eagerly, “though I am ashamed to have forgotten my Latin.”