Then as to men, certainly I know heroes.

One man, I knew, as high a chevalier in heart as any Bayard of them all; one of those souls simple and gentle as a woman, tender in knightly honour.
He was an old man, with a rusty brown coat and rustier wig, who spent his life in a dingy village office.

You poets would have laughed at him.

Well, well, his history never will be written.

The kind, sad, blue eyes are shut now.