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was the state of his mind. In the last two days so many new sensations, new faces. For the first time in his life he had come close to a girl, whom, in all probability, he loved; he was present at the beginning of the thing to which, in all probability, all his energies were consecrated. Well? was he rejoicing? No. Was he wavering, afraid, confused? Oh, certainly not. Was he, at least, feeling that tension of his whole being, that impulse forward into the front ranks of the battle, to be expected as the struggle grew near? No again. Did he believe, then, in this cause? Did he believe in his own love? 'Oh, damned artistic temperament! sceptic!' his lips murmured inaudibly. Why this weariness, this disinclination to speak even, without shrieking and raving? What inner voice did he want to stifle with those ravings? But Marianna, that noble, faithful comrade, that pure, passionate nature, that exquisite girl, did not she love him? Was not