Chapter 64

A few hours since, the idea of being made a mark for a Muscovite bullet, or a Cossack lance, had not been a matter of much moment; now that the cloud had dispersed, that I knew Louisa loved me still--now that I felt once more all the witchery with which the love of such a girl can enhance existence--now that the sweet dream was no longer, as it had been at Calderwood, a mere dream, but a delicious reality--I came to the conclusion that war was an impertinent bore, glory a delusion and a snare, Mars and Bellona a co…