Hewonderedwhatthosemenhadeatenthattheycouldbeinsuchhastetoforcetheirwaytogrimchancesofdeath。Ashewatchedhisenvygrewuntilhethoughtthathewishedtochangeliveswithoneofthem。Hewouldhavelikedtohaveusedatremendousforce，hesaid，throwoffhimselfandbecomeabetter。Swiftpicturesofhimself，apart，yetinhimself，cametohim——abluedesperatefigureleadingluridchargeswithonekneeforwardandabrokenbladehigh——ablue，determinedfigurestandingbeforeacrimsonandsteelassault，gettingcalmlykilledonahighplacebeforetheeyesofall。Hethoughtofthemagnificentpathosofhisdeadbody。
Thesethoughtsupliftedhim。Hefeltthequiverofwardesire。Inhisears，heheardtheringofvictory。Heknewthefrenzyofarapidsuccessfulcharge。Themusicofthetramplingfeet，thesharpvoices，theclankingarmsofthecolumnnearhimmadehimsoarontheredwingsofwar。Forafewmomentshewassublime。
Hethoughtthathewasabouttostartforthefront。Indeed，hesawapictureofhimself，dust—
stained，haggard，panting，flyingtothefrontatthepropermomenttoseizeandthrottlethedark，leeringwitchofcalamity。
Thenthedifficultiesofthethingbegantodragathim。Hehesitated，balancingawkwardlyononefoot。