Majesty as far as I was concerned, even though all others hung in chains.

Thus I had left it all — not then knowing who I was or why Guy Johnson had been kind to me; nor ever expecting to hear from him again.

Thinking of these things as I rode beside Lieutenant Boyd through the calm Westchester sunshine, all that part of my life — which indeed was all of my life except these last three battle years — seemed already so far sway, so dim and unreal, that I could scarce realise I had not been always in the army — had not always lived from day to day, from hour to hour, not knowing one night where I should pillow my head the next.

For at nineteen I shouldered my rifle; and now, at Boyd’s age, two and twenty, my shoulder had