“You are an incorrigible, hopeless Don Quixote.  That’s what you are.”

I was surprised.  I was only fifteen and did not know what he meant exactly.  But I felt vaguely flattered at the name of the immortal knight turning up in connection with my own folly, as some people would call it to my face.  Alas!  I don’t think there was anything to be proud of.  Mine was not the stuff the protectors of forlorn damsels, the redressers of this world’s wrongs are made of; and my tutor was the man to know that best.  Therein, in his indignation, he was superior to the barber and the priest when he flung at me an honoured name like a reproach.

I walked behind him for full five minutes; then without looking back he stopped.  The shadows of distant peaks were lengthening over the Furca Pass.  When I came up to him he turned to me and in full view of the Finster-Aarhorn, with his band of giant brothers rearing their monstrous heads against a brilliant sky, put his hand on my shoulder affectionately.

“Well!  That’s enough.  We will have no more of it.”

And indeed there was no more question of my mysterious vocation between us.  There was to be no more question of it at all, nowhere or with any one.  We began the descent of the Furca Pass conversing merrily.  Eleven years later, month for month, I stood on Tower Hill on the steps of the St. Katherine’s Dockhouse, a master in the British Merchant Service.  But the man who put his hand on my shoulder at the top of the Furca Pass was no longer living.

That very year of our travels he took his degree of the Philosophical Faculty—­and only then his true vocation declared itself.  Obedient to the call he entered at once upon the four-year course of the Medical Schools.  A day came when, on the deck of a ship moored in Calcutta, I opened a letter telling me of the end of an enviable existence.  He had made for himself a practice in some obscure little town of Austrian Galicia.  And the letter went on to tell me how all the bereaved poor of the district, Christians and Jews alike, had mobbed the good doctor’s coffin with sobs and lamentations at the very gate of the cemetery.

How short his years and how clear his vision!  What greater reward in ambition, honour and conscience could he have hoped to win for himself when, on the top of the Furca Pass, he bade me look well to the end of my opening life.

Chapter III.

The devouring in a dismal forest of a luckless Lithuanian dog by my grand-uncle Nicholas B. in company of two other military and famished scarecrows, symbolised, to my childish imagination, the whole horror of the retreat from Moscow and the immorality of a conqueror’s ambition.  An extreme distaste for that objectionable episode has tinged the views I hold as to the character and achievements of Napoleon the Great.  I need not say that these are unfavourable.  It was morally