The glare of the quiet sunlit quadrangle, clean as a well-swept
floor, the whitewashed walls and galleries of the barrack buildings
beyond, the white and green palisade of officers' cottages on
either side, and the glitter of a sentry's bayonet, were for a
moment intolerable to him. Yet, by a kind of subtle irony, never
before had the genius and spirit of the vocation he had chosen
seemed to be as incarnate as in the scene before him. Seclusion,
self-restraint, cleanliness, regularity, sobriety, the atmosphere
of a wholesome life, the austere reserve of a monastery without its
mysterious or pensive meditation, were all there. To escape which,
he had of his own free will successively accepted a fool's
distraction, the inevitable result of which was, the viewing of
them the next morning with tremulous nerves and aching eyeballs.
An hour later, Lieutenant George Calvert had received his final
instructions from Colonel Preston to take charge of a small
detachment to recover and bring back certain deserters, but notably
one, Dennis M'Caffrey of Company H, charged additionally with
mutinous solicitation and example. As Calvert stood before his
superior, that distinguished officer, whose oratorical powers had
been considerably stimulated through a long course of "returning
thanks for the Army," slightly expanded his chest and said
paternally:
"I am aware, Mr.
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