I cannot
tell. Without doubt the knavery of Gedge set aflame his
indignation--or rather the fierce pride of the great old Tory
gentleman. He would have walked through hell-fire sooner than
yielded an inch to Gedge. So much would scornful defiance have
done. But behind all this--and I am as certain of it as I am
certain that one day I shall die--burned even fiercer, steadier,
and clearer the unquenchable fire of patriotic duty. He was
dealing not with a man who had sinned terribly towards him, but
with a man who had offered his life over and over again to his
country, a man who had given to his country the sight of his eyes,
a man on whose breast the King himself had pinned the supreme
badge of honour in his gift. He was dealing, not with a private
individual, but with a national hero. In his small official
capacity as Mayor of Wellingsford, he was but the mouthpiece of a
national sentiment. And more than that. This ceremony was an
appeal to the unimaginative, the sluggish, the faint-hearted. In
its little way--and please remember that all tremendous
enthusiasms are fit by these little fires--it was a proclamation
of the undying glory of England.
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