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.