He could do nothing right if Semyonov were there.

He was only too ready to believe that Semyonov knew the world and he did not, and if Semyonov thought him a fool--it was quite obvious what Semyonov thought him--then a fool he must be.

He clung desperately to the hope that there would be a battle--a romantic dramatic battle--and that in it he would most gloriously distinguish himself.

He believed that, for her sake, he would face all the terrors of hell.

The battle came and there were no terrors of hell--only sick headache, noise, men desperately wounded, and, once again, his own clumsiness.