Later, in a pause between two songs, the General dropped into a seat
beside her.
"Can you guess who sent me that story?" he asked. "It was M. Raoul;
and he travelled across from Plymouth in the ship with this M. Benest,
who happened to get his exchange at about the same time. It was clever
of him to worm out the story--if, indeed, he did not invent it. But
that young man has genius for pathos."
"I did not know that you corresponded."
"Indeed, nor did I. He chose to write. I may answer; and, again, I may
not. To tell you the truth, I have never been sure if we condemned him
quite justly."
Dorothea found herself able to look straight into the kindly old eyes.
"It was a beautiful story. Did you tell it for me?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle, in thanks and in contrition. We are all prisoners
in this world; but while it is certain you have made fortitude easier
for us, I have suspected that there was a time when I, for one, might
have been bolder and repaid you, but stood aside. Also, I think you no
longer require help."
"No longer, General. But what you say is true: we are all prisoners
here, or sentries at the best." And Dorothea, resting her fan on her
lap, let these lines fall from her, not consciously quoting, but
musing on each word as it fell:
"Brutus and Cato might discharge their souls,
And give them furloughs for another world;
But we, like sentries, are obliged to stand
In starless nights, and wait the appointed hour.
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