The sentinels presented arms.

The elder of these officers was the governor: the younger was the late scarecrow, in a brand-new uniform belonging to the governor's son.

He shone out now in his true light; the beau ideal of a patrician soldier; one would have said he had been born with a sword by his side and drilled by nature, so straight and smart, yet easy he was in every movement.

He was like a falcon, eye and all, only, as it were, down at the bottom of the hawk's eye lay a dove's eye.

That compound and varying eye seemed to say, I can love, I can fight: I can fight, I can love, as few of you can do either.
The old man was trying to persuade him to stay at Bayonne, until his wound should be cured.
"No, general, I have other wounds to cure of longer standing than this one." "Well, promise me to lay up at Paris." "General, I shall stay an hour at Paris." "An hour in Paris! Well, at least call at the War Office and present this letter." That same afternoon, wrapped in the governor's furred cloak, the young officer lay at his full length in the coupe of the diligence, the whole of which the governor had peremptorily demanded for him, and rolled day and night towards Paris.
He reached it worn with fatigue and fevered by his wound, but his spirit as indomitable as ever.