A certain moth-like quality within him kept him in the
vicinity of the battle. He desired to see or get news. He wished to know who
was winning.
He told himself that, despite his unprecedented suffering,
he had never lost his greed for a victory, yet, he said, in a half-apologetic
manner to his conscience, he could not but know that a defeat for the army this
time might mean many favorable things for him. The enemy’s blows would splinter
the regiment. Men would desert the colors and scurry like chicken. He would
appear as one of them.
They would be sullen brothers in distress, and he could
easily believe in his virtuous perfection, he conceived that there would be
small trouble in convincing all others.
He said, as if in excuse for this hope, that previously the
army had encountered great defeats and in a few months had shaken off all blood
and tradition in them, emerging as bright and valiant as a new one; thrusting
out of sight the memory of disaster, and appearing with the valor and confidence
of unconquered legions. He felt no compunction
sacrificing a general. He could not tell who the chosen for the barbs might be,
so he could center no direct sympathy upon him. The people were afar and he did
not conceive public opinion to be accurate at long range.
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