Yet when he was alone in the evening, a sadness and a horror of what he
had done came over him; for he had taken life that day as a man mows
down grass, in swaths, and he could not tell why he had slain, for he
knew not the men who fought on the two sides, nor their difference. He
had charged because he saw men charging, he had struck for the love of
strife, and had killed because it was of his nature to kill. But now
that the blood was shed, and the sun which had risen on life was going
down on death, Gilbert Warde was sorry for what he had done, and his
brave charge seemed but a senseless deed of slaughter, for which he
should rather have done penance than received knighthood.

"I am no better than a wild beast," he said, when he had told Dunstan
what he felt. "Go and find out a priest to pray for those I have killed
to-day."

He covered his brow with his hand as he sat at the supper table.

"I go," answered the young man. "Yet it is a pleasant sight to see the
lion weeping for pity over the calf he has killed."

"The lion kills that he may eat and himself live," answered Gilbert.
"And the men who fought to-day fought for a cause. But I smote for the
wanton love of smiting that is in all our blood, and I am ashamed. Bid
the priest pray for me also."




CHAPTER XI