Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Why was there no monument erected to him?
The solution of this question cost me no little trouble. In our church there were two splendid monuments, with beautiful Latin verses on them; and the men who slept under them were of far less importance than my hero. But here, too, there was an explanation. My hero himself had said on his deathbed that he did not wish for a monument, but preferred to rest simply under the green grass;—his name would live well enough without one!
This, however, raised a new difficulty. I had never heard of any hero buried in the former burying-ground close to the church. Happily, however, I remembered to have read somewhere that “ingratitude is the world’s reward.”
He was forgotten!
That grieved me deeply; but I determined with myself to revive the memory of his name, when I should be somewhat older, and could write in the papers, and become a member of the Useful Knowledge Society. Then I would tell people how great my hero had been, and how ungratefully the world had treated him. Till then, he should remain my secret.
Of course I had adorned him with all sorts of chivalric qualities. I had seen him in my thoughts as the protector of helpless women, as the avenger of wrong; I had seen him risk his life at the command of his superiors, and in order to win one look from his lady.
And I had ended by endowing him with the crowning grace of modesty. Of this I was not a little proud. I knew for certain that all the other boys’ heroes would be brutal and arrogant, and set upon getting monuments for themselves.
Mine, however, was modest ... and his reward was oblivion.... Yes—till I should arise ... then my hero should be greater than all others.
Happy that now I knew all about my hero, youth and excitement were too much for me, and I fell asleep.
Next morning I arose, no longer a boy—not even a man. I was a great man. I had a task before me. I must give back to my hero his just fame and honours.