It seemed to John presently that the deep, inscrutable eyes were gazing
at him, and he felt a quivering at the roots of his hair. It was young
Bonaparte, the republican general, and not Napoleon, the emperor, who
was looking into his heart.
"Well," said John, in a sort of defiance, "if you had stuck to your
early principles we wouldn't have all this now. First Consul you might
have been, but you shouldn't have gone any further."
He turned away with a sigh of regret that so great a warrior and
statesman, in the end, should have misused his energies.
He returned to the room below, blew out the lamp and opened the window
again. The cool fresh air once more poured into the room, and he took
long deep breaths of it. It was still raining, though lightly, and the
pattering of the drops on the leaves made a pleasant sound. The thunder
and the lightning had ceased, though not the far rumble of artillery.
John knew that the sport of kings was still going on under the
searchlights, and all his intense horror of the murderous monarchies
returned. He was not sleepy yet, and he listened a long time. The sound
seemed to come from both sides of him, and he felt that the abandoned
cottage among the trees was merely a little oasis in the sea of war.
The rain ceased and he concluded to scout about the house to see if any
one was near, or if any farm animals besides the horse had been left.
But Marne was alone. There was not even a fowl of any kind.
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