He sighed and teetered his legs. A sigh moves nothing forward, yet it is
as essential as life itself. It is the safety-valve to every emotion; it
is the last thing in laughter, the last thing in tears. One sighs in
entering the world and in leaving it, perhaps in protest. A child sighs
for the moon because it knows no better. Carmichael sighed for the
Princess Hildegarde, understanding. It was sigh or curse, and the latter
mode of expression wastes more vitality. Oh, yes; they made over him, as
the world goes; they dined and wined him and elected him honorary member
to their clubs; they patted him on the back and called him captain; but
it was all in a negligent toleration that turned every pleasure into
rust.
Arthur Carmichael was Irish. He was born in America, educated there and
elsewhere, a little while in Paris, a little while at Bonn, and, like
all Irishmen, he was baned with the wandering foot; for the man who is
homeless by choice has a subtle poison in his blood. He was at Bonn when
the Civil War came. He went back to America and threw himself into the
fight with all the ardor that had made his forebears famous in the
service of the worthless Stuarts. It wasn't a question with him of the
mere love of fighting, of tossing the penny; he knew with which side he
wished to fight.
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