And when he faced the crowd--if they
cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that
broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest,
two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking
what none others were--the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the
soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. These two looked
deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of
battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the
face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had
always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose.
He spoke not a word of himself--not a word of the sickness through which
he had passed. It was of the long patience and the patriotism of the
American soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of
the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular.
There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he
had done, but the regular--there was no one to speak for him in camp, on
the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield.
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