He was dying fast of the most terrible form of pulmonary maladies.
Cigarette flashed her bright, falcon glance over him.
"Well! is it not misery that is glory ?" "We think that it is when we are children.

God help me!" murmured the man who lay dying of lung-disease.
"Ouf! Then we think rightly! Glory! Is it the cross, the star, the baton?
No![*] He who wins those runs his horse up on a hill, out of shot range, and watches through his glass how his troops surge up, wave on wave, in the great sea of blood.

It is misery that is glory--the misery that toils with bleeding feet under burning suns without complaint; that lies half-dead through the long night with but one care--to keep the torn flag free from the conqueror's touch; that bears the rain of blows in punishment, rather than break silence and buy release by betrayal of a comrade's trust; that is beaten like the mule, and galled like the horse, and starved like the camel, and housed like the dog, and yet does the thing which is right, and the thing which is brave, despite all; that suffers, and endures, and pours out his blood like water to the thirsty sands, whose thirst is never stilled, and goes up in the morning sun to the combat, as though death were paradise that the Arbicos dream; knowing the while, that no paradise waits save the crash of the hoof through the throbbing brain, or the roll of the gun-carriage over the writhing limb.

That is glory.

The misery that is heroism because France needs it, because a soldier's honor wills it.