Misery, when hunger and thirst of long marches tortured him, and his soul sickened at the half-raw offal, and the water thick with dust, and stained with blood, which the men round him seized so ravenously.

Misery, when the dreary dawn broke, only to usher in a day of mechanical maneuvers, of petty tyrannies, of barren, burdensome hours in the exercise-ground, of convoy duty in the burning sun-glare, and under the heat of harness; and the weary night fell with the din and uproar, and the villainous blasphemy and befouled merriment of the riotous barracks, that denied even the peace and oblivion of sleep.

They were years of infinite wretchedness oftentimes, only relieved by the loyalty and devotion of the man who had followed him into his exile.

But, however wretched, they never wrung a single regret or lament from Cecil.

He had come out to this life; he took it as it was.