Chapter: The regiment was standing at order arms at the side of a lane, waiting
for the command to march, when suddenly the youth remembered the little
packet enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope which the loud young
soldier with lugubrious words had intrusted to him.  It made him start.
He uttered an exclamation and turned toward his comrade.

"Wilson!"

"What?"

His friend, at his side in the ranks, was thoughtfully staring down the
road.  From some cause his expression was at that moment very meek. The
youth, regarding him with sidelong glances, felt impelled to change his
purpose.  "Oh, nothing," he said.

His friend turned his head in some surprise, "Why, what was yeh goin'
t' say?"

"Oh, nothing," repeated the youth.

He resolved not to deal the little blow.  It was sufficient that the
fact made him glad.  It was not necessary to knock his friend on the
head with the misguided packet.

He had been possessed of much fear of his friend, for he saw how easily
questionings could make holes in his feelings.  Lately, he had assured
himself that the altered comrade would not tantalize him with a
persistent curiosity, but he felt certain that during the first period
of leisure his friend would ask him to relate his adventures of the
previous day.

He now rejoiced in the possession of a small weapon with which he could
prostrate his comrade at the first signs of a cross-examination.  He
was master.  It would now be he who could laugh and shoot the shafts of
derision.

The friend had, in a weak hour, spoken with sobs of his own death.  He
had delivered a melancholy oration previous to his funeral, and had
doubtless in the packet of letters, presented various keepsakes to
relatives.  But he had not died, and thus he had delivered himself into
the hands of the youth.

The latter felt immensely superior to his friend, but he inclined to
condescension.  He adopted toward him an air of patronizing good humor.

His self-pride was now entirely restored.  In the shade of its
flourishing growth he stood with braced and self-confident legs, and
since nothing could now be discovered he did not shrink from an
encounter with the eyes of judges, and allowed no thoughts of his own
to keep him from an attitude of manfulness.  He had performed his
mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man.

Indeed, when he remembered his fortunes of yesterday, and looked at
them from a distance he began to see something fine there.  He had
license to be pompous and veteranlike.

His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight.

In the present, he declared to himself that it was only the doomed and
the damned who roared with sincerity at circumstance.  Few but they
ever did it.  A man with a full stomach and the respect of his fellows
had no business to scold about anything that he might think to be wrong
in the ways of the universe, or even with the ways of society.  Let the
unfortunates rail; the others may play marbles.

He did not give a great deal of thought to these battles that lay
directly before him.  It was not essential that he should plan his ways
in regard to them.  He had been taught that many obligations of a life
were easily avoided.  The lessons of yesterday had been that
retribution was a laggard and blind.  With these facts before him he
did not deem it necessary that he should become feverish over the
possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours.  He could leave much to
chance.  Besides, a faith in himself had secretly blossomed.  There was
a little flower of confidence growing within him.  He was now a man of
experience.  He had been out among the dragons, he said, and he assured
himself that they were not so hideous as he had imagined them. Also,
they were inaccurate; they did not sting with precision.  A stout heart
often defied, and defying, escaped.

And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods
and doomed to greatness?

He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle.  As he
recalled their terror-struck faces he felt a scorn for them.  They had
surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely necessary.
They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with discretion and
dignity.

He was aroused from this reverie by his friend, who, having hitched
about nervously and blinked at the trees for a time, suddenly coughed
in an introductory way, and spoke.

"Fleming!"

"What?"

The friend put his hand up to his mouth and coughed again.  He fidgeted
in his jacket.

"Well," he gulped, at last, "I guess yeh might as well give me back
them letters."  Dark, prickling blood had flushed into his cheeks and
brow.

"All right, Wilson," said the youth.  He loosened two buttons of his
coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet.  As he extended
it to his friend the latter's face was turned from him.

He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because during it
he had been trying to invent a remarkable comment upon the affair. He
could conjure nothing of sufficient point.  He was compelled to allow
his friend to escape unmolested with his packet.  And for this he took
unto himself considerable credit.  It was a generous thing.

His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame.  As he
contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and stout.
He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his acts; he
was an individual of extraordinary virtues.

He reflected, with condescending pity: "Too bad!  Too bad!  The poor
devil, it makes him feel tough!"

After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle pictures he had
seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the hearts of the
people glow with stories of war.  He could see himself in a room of
warm tints telling tales to listeners.  He could exhibit laurels.  They
were insignificant; still, in a district where laurels were infrequent,
they might shine.

He saw his gaping audience picturing him as the central figure in
blazing scenes.  And he imagined the consternation and the ejaculations
of his mother and the young lady at the seminary as they drank his
recitals.  Their vague feminine formula for beloved ones doing brave
deeds on the field of battle without risk of life would be destroyed.

 He had performed his mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man. Henry remembers the yellow envelope that Wilson had asked to be delivered to his family upon his death. He is about to remind Wilson of it, but thinks better of this at the last moment. He believes that having the envelope--an emblem of Wilson's past vulnerability--will enable him to deflect any unpleasant questions Wilson might ask about Henry's activities during the previous day. For Henry, the envelope becomes an insurance policy against being caught in a lie, and his self-assurance is restored. He does not worry about the battles ahead of him, thinking that he is "doomed to greatness" and cannot be killed. He feels scorn for his comrades who ran from the battle the previous day, thinking that they fled more wildly than was necessary, while he himself "fled with discretion and dignity. Wilson interrupts Henry's reverie by asking him for the envelope back. Henry returns it, and Wilson seems deeply embarrassed. Henry feels sorry for his friend and immensely superior to him; he imagines telling his mother and a young lady from his hometown stories of the war, and thinks that his tales will shatter their feeble preconceptions of heroism and combat

