Page:Journey Round my Room by Xiavier de Maistre trans. Henry Attwell.djvu/77



HAD a friend. Death took him from me. He was snatched away at the beginning of his career, at the moment when his friendship had become a pressing need to my heart. We supported one another in the hard toil of war. We had but one pipe between us. We drank out of the same cup. We slept beneath the same tent. And, amid our sad trials, the spot where we lived together became to us a new father-land. I had seen him exposed to all the perils of a disastrous war. Death seemed to spare us to each other. His