There was scarce a man in the Queen's Service who could rival him for
lightness of limb, for power of endurance in every sport of field and
fell, of the moor and the gymnasium; and the athletic pleasures of
many a happy hour stood him in good stead now, in the emergence of his
terrible extremity.
Flight!--for the instant the word thrilled through him with a loathing
sense. Flight!--the craven's refuge, the criminal's resource. He wished
in the moment's agony that they would send a bullet through his brain as
he ran, rather than drive him out to this. Flight!--he felt a coward and
a felon as he fled; fled from every fairer thing, from every peaceful
hour, from the friendship and good will of men, from the fame of his
ancient race, from the smile of the women that loved him, from all that
makes life rich and fair, from all that men call honor; fled, to leave
his name disgraced in the service he adored; fled, to leave the world
to think him a guilty dastard who dared not face his trial; fled, to bid
his closest friend believe him low sunk in the depths of foulest felony,
branded forever with a criminal's shame--by his own act, by his own
hand. Flight!--it has bitter pangs that make brave men feel cowards
when they fly from tyranny and danger and death to a land of peace and
promise; but in his flight he left behind him all that made life worth
the living, and went out to meet eternal misery; renouncing every hope,
yielding up all his future.
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