“I did—twenty years ago,” said Feeney.
“Think of it now,” Finacune persisted raptly, leaning back against his saddle with a pot of tea in his hand. “The mere sight of her would jam a sweetheart or a wife, or both, into the brain of every man present—the first kiss or a last, dim light somewhere, a word or a caress—the unspeakable miracle that comes to every man some time—that of a woman giving herself to him!... Ah, that’s it, you old crocodile! It would all come back on live wires—if a woman walked through here—to each man his romance—hot throats, dry lips, and burning eyes. The world holds a woman for us all—even for you, yoked to the war-hag; and if memories were tangible, the right woman would sweep in upon us to-night from five continents and seven seas. A woman! The mere name is a pang to us lonely devils out here in the open, where we blister with hate because we are not allowed to smell blood. Hell!—one would think I had just broken out of a gas-house.”
“Twenty years ago——” Feeney remarked.
“Hark, listen to that young American sing——”
“You listen to me, young man,” Feeney said forcefully. “These lines, with which I am about to cleanse you from carnality are by my young friend Kipling:
“White hands cling to the tightened rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel.
Tenderest voices cry, ‘Turn again,’
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel;
High hopes faint on the warm hearthstone—