I pondered the matter. "I suppose he has a right to protect his life,"
I said. "But, 'if a man smite thee on the cheek,' _that_ does not
touch life."

"What would you think of a man," said my companion, gravely, "who
should suffer some one to give him such a blow, without taking any
notice of it?"

"If he did it because he was _afraid_," I said, "of course I shouldn't
like that. But if he did it to obey the Bible, I should think it was
noble. The Bible says, 'it is glory to pass by a transgression.'"

"But suppose he was afraid of being thought afraid?"

I looked at my companion, and felt instinctively sure that neither
this nor my first supposed case would ever be true of him. Further, I
felt sure that no one would ever be hardy enough to give the supposed
occasion. I can hardly tell how I knew; it was by some of those
indescribable natural signs. We were slowly mounting the hill; and in
every powerful, lithe movement, in the very set of his shoulders and
head, and as well in the sparkle of the bright eye which looked round
at me, I read the tokens of a spirit which I thought neither had known
nor ever would know the sort of indignity he had described. He was
talking for talk's sake. But while I looked, the sparkle of the eye
grew very merry.

"You are judging me, Miss Randolph," he said. "Judge me gently."

"No, indeed," I said. "I was thinking that you are not speaking from
experience."

"I am not better than you think me," he said, laughing, and shaking
his head. And the laugh was so full of merriment that it infected me.
I saw he was very much amused; I thought he was a little interested,
too. "You know," he went on, "my education has been unfavourable. I
have fought for a smaller matter than that you judge insufficient."

"Did it do any good?" I asked.

He laughed again: picked up a stone and threw it into the midst of a
thick tree to dislodge something--I did not see what; and finally
looked round at me with the most genial amusement and good nature
mixed. I knew he was interested now.

"I don't know how much good it did to anybody but myself," he said.
"It comforted me--at the time. Afterwards I remember thinking it was
hardly worth while. But if a fellow should suffer an insult, as you
say, and not take any notice of it, what do you suppose would become
of him in the corps--or in the world either?"

"He would be a noble man, all the same," I said.

"But people like to be well thought of by th