Should we be melancholy boys?
Why, soldiers, why?
Whose business 'tis to die—"
fell into Colonel Burton's arms at the head of Webb's regiment, and his dying eyes saw the grenadiers wipe out the disgrace of Montmorency with dripping bayonets. So he died, with a smile, bidding Webb's regiment God-speed, and sending word to the dying Wolfe that he would meet him a minute hence at Peter's gate in heaven.
Thus came I naturally by my hatred for the French, nor was there in all France sufficient wampum to wipe away the feud or cover the dear phantom that stood in my path as I passed through life my way.
Now, as I sat a-thinking by the window, below me the robins in all the trees had begun their wild-wood vespers—hymns of the true thrush, though not rounded with a thrush's elegance.
The tree-shadows, too, had grown in length, and the afternoon sun wore a deeper blazonry through the hill haze in the west.
Fain to taste of the freedom which was now mine, I went out and down the stairs, passing my lady Silver Heels strapped to a back-board and in a temper with her sampler.
"Oh, Micky," she said, "my bones ache, and Mistress Molly is with the baby, and the key is there on that brass nail."
"It would be wrong if I released you," said I, piously, meaning to do it, nevertheless.