After hearing Colville's little narrative of what had transpired before he left London, Robert Wodrow looked at him for a time in silence, and thought how different were their fates and probable future in the world.
Colville had hope and wealth, he (Wodrow) neither, and life seemed so valueless; yet a couple of Afghan bullets might solve all difficulties for both of them!
While the artillery made a detour to avoid the pitfalls of the Mohammedan burial-place, Wodrow was remarking to the officer by whose side he rode,
'It would seem, Captain Colville, that, as some writer says of the romance of life, ours seems to be overtaking us pretty quickly.'
'Romance, do you call it?'
'Bitterness, in my case, would be nearer the truth. I am a broken and ruined man,' said the other, after a pause. 'Ellinor took the last ray of sunshine out of my life. She told me plainly that she could not marry a poor man for the world, nor wait till he became rich—a knowledge that only came to her after Sir Redmond Sleath found his way to Birkwoodbrae. She was wiser, perhaps, but her wisdom, poor girl, brought her nothing—nothing! My love was only an ideal after all, Captain Colville; and though life does not seem to me worth living, it must be lived—till ended—after all.'
Colville made no reply, but proffered his cigar-case to the speaker, who accepted a cigar with a courteous bow and blush of pleasure; the very act was a kindly recognition that they had once been equals, and were still friends.
'You must quit this sort of thing, Wodrow, and go back to your studies at Edinburgh,' said Colville; 'back to Quain and Turner, to Balfour's Botany, Jackson's Materia Medica, and all the rest of it. If you want money for that or anything else, consider me your banker.'
But Robert Wodrow shook his head with an air of decision. 'Sir, I thank you from my heart's core, but no, Captain Colville—never again.'
'Tuts; we'll talk about all this another time,' said Colville, kindly, hoping to bring him to a right way of thinking and acting.