He, Elijah Martin!
the despised, the rejected, the worthless outcast of Redwood Camp,
recognized as a "born king," a leader; his power felt by the very men
who had scorned him! And he had done nothing--stop! had he actually done
NOTHING? Was it not possible that he was REALLY what they thought him?
His brain reeled under the strong, unaccustomed wine of praise; acting
upon his weak selfishness, it exalted him for a moment to their measure
of his strength, even as their former belief in his inefficiency had
kept him down. Courage is too often only the memory of past success.
This was his first effort; he forgot he had not earned it, even as
he now ignored the danger of earning it. The few words of unconscious
praise had fallen like the blade of knighthood on his cowering
shoulders; he had risen ennobled from the contact. Though his face was
still muffled in his blanket, he stood erect and seemed to have gained
in stature.
The braves had remained standing irresolute, and yet watchful, a few
paces from their captives. Suddenly, Elijah, still keeping his back
to the prisoners, turned upon the braves, with blazing eyes, violently
throwing out his hands with the gesture of breaking bonds. Like all
sudden demonstrations of undemonstrative men, it was extravagant, weird,
and theatrical. But it was more potent than speech--the speech that,
even if effective, would still have betrayed him to his countrymen.
The braves hurriedly cut the thongs of the prisoners; another impulsive
gesture from Elijah, and they, too, fled.
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