Time passed on. The ringing vibration of the clock was at hand; the
hour had come.
The count got up, seized his pistols, and placed himself near the
bed, so as not to fall on the floor.
The first stroke of twelve; he did not fire.
Hector was a man of courage; his reputation for bravery was high.
He had fought at least ten duels; and his cool bearing on the ground
had always been admiringly remarked. One day he had killed a man,
and that night he slept very soundly.
But he did not fire.
There are two kinds of courage. One, false courage, is that meant
for the public eye, which needs the excitement of the struggle, the
stimulus of rage, and the applause of lookers-on. The other, true
courage, despises public opinion, obeys conscience, not passion;
success does not sway it, it does its work noiselessly.
Two minutes after twelve--Hector still held the pistol against his
forehead.
"Am I going to be afraid?" he asked himself.
He was afraid, but would not confess it to himself. He put his
pistols back on the table and returned to his seat near the fire.
All his limbs were trembling.
"It's nervousness," he muttered.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236