“Captain,” I said; “I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot.”

“Let us sit down,” said he; “and we will talk it over by ourselves.”

His tone was unofficial.  The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal.  I understood well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me to unburden.

“Captain,” I said, “I fear.”

“May I ask what it is that you fear?”

“I fear that I am a coward.”

“Pardon me for doubting.  Why should you suppose so?”

“I have never been tried, and I dread the test.”

“But,” said he; “you must have forgotten.  You were in a close place when you were hurt.  No coward would have been where you were, if the truth has been told.”

“That was not I; I am now another man.”

“Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread.”

“Proving a coward,” I replied.

“You fear that you will fear?” said he.

“That is exactly it.”

“Then, my friend, what you fear is not danger, but fear.”

“I fear that danger will make me fear.”

“I imagine, sir, that danger makes anybody fear—­at least anybody who has something more than the mere fearlessness of the brute that cannot realize danger.”

“Do you fear, too, Captain?”

The Captain hesitated, and I was abashed at my boldness.  I knew that his silence was rebuke.

“I will tell you how I feel, Jones, since you permit me to speak of myself,” he said at last; “I feel that life is valuable, and not to be thrown away lightly.  I want to live and not die; neither do I like the thought of being maimed for life.  Death and wounds are very distasteful to me.  I feel that my body is averse to exposing itself to pain; I fear pain; I fear death, but I do not fear fear.  I do not think the fear of death is unmanly, for it is human.  Those who do not fear death do not love life.  Please tell me if you love life.”

“I do not know, Captain; I suppose I do.”

“Do you fear death?”

“What I fear now is cowardice.  I suppose that if I were indifferent to death I should have no fear of being afraid.”

“I am sure that you kept your presence of mind the other day, in the swamp,” said he.

“I don’t think I had great fear.”

“Yet you were in danger there.”

“Very little, I think, Captain.”

“No, sir; you were in danger.  At any moment a bullet might have ended your life.”

“I did not realize the situation, then.”

“Well, I must confess that you had the advantage of me, then,” said he.

“What?  You, Captain?  You felt that you were in danger?”

“Yes, Jones; every moment I knew our danger.”