I must rise to your level, not drag you to mine." Then the soldier that had stood between two armies in a hail of bullets, and fired a master-shot, took a little book of offices in one hand,--the chaplain had given it him,--and fixed his eyes upon the pious words, and clung like a child to the pious words, and kissed his lost wife's letter, and tried hard to be like her he loved: patient, very patient, till the end should come.
"Qui vive ?" cried the sentinel outside to a strange officer.
"France," was his reply.

He then asked the sentinel, "Where is the colonel commanding the brigade ?" The sentinel lowered his voice, "Asleep, my officer," said he; for the new-comer carried two epaulets.
"Wake him," said the officer in a tone of a man used to command on a large scale.
Dujardin heard, and did not choose a stranger should think he was asleep in broad day.

He came hastily out of the tent, therefore, with Josephine's letter in his hand, and, in the very act of conveying it to his bosom, found himself face to face with--her husband.
Did you ever see two duellists cross rapiers?
How unlike a theatrical duel! How smooth and quiet the bright blades are! they glide into contact.

They are polished and slippery, yet they hold each other.

So these two men's eyes met, and fastened: neither spoke: each searched the other's face keenly.