“What ails me!” exclaimed the brave old soldier, with great emotion:  “After having been for thirty years in the wars, I had imagined myself to be about as courageous as any man.  And now I find I have a master!  And that master is yourself!”

“I!” said Gabriel; “what do you mean?  What have I done?”

“Thunder, don’t you know that the brave wounds there” (the veteran took with transport both of Gabriel’s hands), “that these wounds are as glorious—­are more glorious than our—­than all ours, as warriors by profession!”

“Yes! yes, my father speaks truth!” exclaimed Agricola; and he added, with enthusiasm, “Oh, for such priests!  How I love them!  How I venerate them!  How I am elevated by their charity, their courage, their resignation!”

“I entreat you not to extol me thus,” said Gabriel with embarrassment.

“Not extol you!” replied Dagobert.  “Hanged if I shouldn’t.  When I have gone into the heat of action, did I rush into it alone?  Was I not under the eyes of my commanding officer?  Were not my comrades there along with me?  In default of true courage, had I not the instinct of self preservation to spur me on, without reckoning the excitement of the shouts and tumult of battle, the smell of the gunpowder, the flourishes of the trumpets, the thundering of the cannon, the ardor of my horse, which bounded beneath me as if the devil were at his tail?  Need I state that I also knew that the emperor was present, with his eye upon every one—­the emperor, who, in recompense for a hole being made in my tough hide, would give me a bit of lace or a ribbon, as plaster for the wound.  Thanks to all these causes, I passed for game.  Fair enough!  But are you not a thousand times more game than I, my brave boy; going alone, unarmed, to confront enemies a hundred times more ferocious than those whom we attacked—­we, who fought in whole squadrons, supported by artillery, bomb-shells, and case-shot?”

“Excellent father!” cried Agricola, “how noble of you to render to Gabriel this justice!”

“Oh, dear brother,” said Gabriel, “his kindness to me makes him magnify what was quite natural and simple!”

“Natural!” said the veteran soldier; “yes, natural for gallants who have hearts of the true temper:  but that temper is rare.”

“Oh, yes, very rare,” said Agricola; “for that kind of courage is the most admirable of all.  Most bravely did you seek almost certain death, alone, bearing the cross in hand as your only weapon, to preach charity and Christian brotherhood.  They seized you, tortured you; and you await death and partly endure it, without complaint, without remonstrance, without hatred, without anger, without a wish for vengeance; forgiveness issuing from your mouth, and a smile of pity beaming upon your lips; and this in the depths of forests, where no one could witness your magnanimity,—­none could behold you—­and without other desire, after you were rescued than modestly to conceal blessed wounds under your black robe!  My father is right, by Jove! can you still contend that you are not as brave as he?”