The threatened land of France was his native
country. Fifteen centuries of history had been working for him, in
order that his opening eyes might survey progress and comforts that his
ancestors did not even know. Many generations of Desnoyers had prepared
for his advent into life by struggling with the land and defending it
that he might be born into a free family and fireside. . . . And when
his turn had come for continuing this effort, when his time had arrived
in the rosary of generations--he had fled like a debtor evading payment!
. . . On coming into his fatherland he had contracted obligations with
the human group to whom he owed his existence. This obligation should be
paid with his arms, with any sacrifice that would repel danger . . . and
he had eluded the acknowledgment of his signature, fleeing his country
and betraying his trust to his forefathers! Ah, miserable coward! The
material success of his life, the riches acquired in a remote country,
were comparatively of no importance. There are failures that millions
cannot blot out. The uneasiness of his conscience was proving it now.
Proof, too, was in the envy and respect inspired by this poor mechanic
marching to meet his death with others equally humble, all kindled with
the satisfaction of duty fulfilled, of sacrifice accepted.
The memory of Madariaga came to his memory.
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