“And besides, too,” resumed Dagobert, “the dear boy did all that for a thankless paymaster; for it is true, Agricola, that his wounds will never change his humble black robe of a priest into the rich robe of a bishop!”

“I am not so disinterested as I may seem to be,” said Gabriel to Dagobert, smiling meekly.  “If I am deemed worthy, a great recompense awaits me on high.”

“As to all that, my boy,” said Dagobert, “I do not understand it; and I will not argue about it.  I maintain it, that my old cross of honor would be at least as deservedly affixed to your cassock as upon my uniform.”

“But these recompenses are never conferred upon humble priests like Gabriel,” said Agricola, “and if you did know, dear father, how much virtue and valor is among those whom the highest orders in the priesthood insolently call the inferior clergy,—­the unseen merit and the blind devotedness to be found amongst worthy, but obscure, country curates, who are inhumanly treated and subjugated to a pitiless yoke by the lordly lawnsleeves!  Like us, those poor priests are worthy laborers in their vocation; and for them, also, all generous hearts ought to demand enfranchisement!  Sons of common people, like ourselves, and useful as we are, justice ought to be rendered both to them and to us.  Do I say right, Gabriel?  You will not contradict it; for you have told me, that your ambition would have been to obtain a small country curacy; because you understand the good that you could work within it.”

“My desire is still the same,” said Gabriel sadly:  “but unfortunately—­” and then, as if he wished to escape from a painful thought, and to change the conversation, he, addressing himself to Dagobert, added:  “Believe me:  be more just than to undervalue your own courage by exalting mine.  Your courage must be very great—­very great; for, after a battle, the spectacle of the carnage must be truly terrible to a generous and feeling heart.  We, at least, though we may be killed, do not kill.”

At these words of the missionary, the soldier drew himself up erect, looked upon Gabriel with astonishment, and said, “This is most surprising!”

“What is?” inquired Agricola.

“What Gabriel has just told us,” replied Dagobert, “brings to my mind what I experienced in warfare on the battlefield in proportion as I advanced in years.  Listen, my children:  more than once, on the night after a general engagement, I have been mounted as a vidette,—­alone,—­by night,—­amid the moonlight, on the field of battle which remained in our possession, and upon which lay the bodies of seven or eight thousand of the slain, amongst whom were mingled the slaughtered remains of some of my old comrades:  and then this sad scene, when the profound silence has restored me to my senses from the thirst for bloodshed and the delirious whirling of my sword (intoxicated like the rest), I have said to myself, ‘for what have these men been killed?—­For what—­for what?’ But this feeling, well understood as it was, hindered me not, on the following morning, when the trumpets again sounded the charge, from rushing once more to the slaughter.  But the same thought always recurred when my arm became weary with carnage; and after wiping my sabre upon the mane of my horse, I have said to myself, ’I have killed!—­killed!!—­killed!!! and, for what!!!’”