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He himself did not know his power. The years that had gone had been fallow years years of failure but it was all a getting together of his forces for the spring. Relaxation is the first requisite of strength.
Strange, too, for one who has kept his calmness throughout the contest, to observe the bloodthirstiness that is developed in the hour of triumph, and to be conscious that he is himself among its objects!
It must be bliss indeed to call this exalted creature his own, yet it would be hard to see her place another, even though it were the Almighty Himself, so far above her lover and husband.
But the King was so wrath at this, that little more was heard of it. The Duke of York, during these proceedings, saved himself very well.
When Chester left he was thinking that, except for the outward signs of his adventure, Burns did not look as unfit as might have been expected for a happy hour with an old friend. Just outside the house Chester himself had an adventure. He was quite alone, and he almost ran into a slim figure on the walk.
So confident was he that the Emperor would support him, that he would not retreat while yet it was in his power to do so; and the consequence was that his corps d'armée was torn to pieces, and himself captured.
How it was managed Lawrence never found out, but he had barely succeeded in driving off the foe in front, and was congratulating Quashy on his coolness, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by yelling savages. The Gaucho chief made a desperate fight towards his own hut, which he gained and entered in safety. Lawrence and Quashy tried to follow, but were too much pressed by numbers.
Flore felt so secure of her power that, unfortunately for her, and for the bachelor himself, it did not occur to her to make him marry her. Towards the close of 1815, Flore, who was then twenty-seven, had reached the perfect development of her beauty. Plump and fresh, and white as a Norman countrywoman, she was the ideal of what our ancestors used to call "a buxom housewife."
Yet it would be enquiring too curiously to ask, whether the recollection of Rebecca's beauty and magnanimity did not recur to his mind more frequently than the fair descendant of Alfred might altogether have approved. Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of Richard, and was graced with farther marks of the royal favour.
In his own day he was one of the most lonely and laughed at of poets, moping among his lakes and mountains and shepherds. Yet, as Matthew Arnold said, "we are all Wordsworthians nowadays," and the religion of nature that he found there for himself in his solitude bids fair to be the final religion of the modern world.
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