I do not know how to make you realize the pain I suffered.  I had never been jealous before, and it seemed intolerable that this creature should have this good fortune which he was so ill entitled to, and I have to sit and see myself neglected when I was so longing for the least little attention out of the thousand that this beloved girl was lavishing on him.  I was near her, and tried two or three times to get started on some of the things that I had done in those battles—­and I felt ashamed of myself, too, for stooping to such a business—­but she cared for nothing but his battles, and could not be got to listen; and presently when one of my attempts caused her to lose some precious rag or other of his mendacities and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing on a new engagement, of course, and increasing the havoc and carnage tenfold, I felt so humiliated by this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up and tried no more.

The others were as outraged by the Paladin’s selfish conduct as I was—­and by his grand luck, too, of course—­perhaps, indeed, that was the main hurt.  We talked our trouble over together, which was natural, for rivals become brothers when a common affliction assails them and a common enemy bears off the victory.

Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it were not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others no chance.  I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it—­a poem in which I most happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl’s charms, without mentioning her name, but any one could see who was meant; for the bare title—­“The Rose of Orleans”—­would reveal that, as it seemed to me.  It pictured this pure and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes upon the horrid machinery of death, and then—­note this conceit—­it blushes for the sinful nature of man, and turns red in a single night.  Becomes a red rose, you see—­a rose that was white before.  The idea was my own, and quite new.  Then it sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city, and when the beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and wept.  This was also my own idea, and new.  That closed that part of the poem; then I put her into the similitude of the firmament—­not the whole of it, but only part.  That is to say, she was the moon, and all the constellations were following her about, their hearts in flames for love of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen, for ’twas thought she loved another.  ’Twas thought she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who was upon the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutilation in the bloody field, waging relentless war against a heartless foe to save her from an all too early grave, and her city from destruction.  And when the sad pursuing constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow that was come upon them —­note this idea—­their hearts broke and their tears