Then, when the lull of battle came, when the wild shrieks and shouting were over, and when the rattling of musketry was no longer heard, he felt utterly tired. He would sleep, he told himself, and what cared he if it should be
"The sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil or night of waking"?
The cords that bound him hurt a little, but he would not feel their pressure when--he slept.
His was not a dreamless sleep by any means, though a long one.
His old, old life seemed to rise up before him. He was back again in England--dear old England! He was a clerk, a confidential clerk.
He had no care, no complications, and he was happy. Happy in the love of a sweet girl who adored him; the girl that he would have made his wife. Poor? Yes, both were; but oh! when one has innocence and sweet contentment, love can bloom in a garret.
Yet envy of the rich began to fill his soul. The world was badly divided. Why had he to tread the streets day after day with muddy boots to his office, and back to his dingy home after long hours of toil and drudgery at the desk?
Oh for comfort! Oh for riches!
The girl that was to be his was more beautiful than many who lolled in cushioned carriages, with liveried servants to attend their beck and call.
So his dream went on, and dreams are but half-waking thoughts.