"But one little soldier cannot be all the rank and file of
this army?" he said, looking down at me.
"Oh, no!" I said, laughing, — "there are a great many more, —
there are a great many more, — only you do not happen to see
them."
"And these others, that I do see, are not soldiers then?"
"I do not know," I said, feeling sadly what a stumbling block
it was. "Perhaps. they are. But you know yourself, Mr.
Thorold, there is a difference between soldiers and soldiers."
He was silent a while, as we mounted the hill, and then
suddenly broke out again.
"But it makes religion a slavery — a bondage — to be _all_ the
while under arms, on guard, watching orders. _Always_ on the
watch and expecting to be under fire — it is too much; it
would make a gloomy, ugly life of it."
"But suppose you _are_ under fire?" I said.
"What?" said he, looking and laughing again.
"If you are a good soldier in an enemy's country, always with
work to do; will you wish to be off your guard, or off duty?"
"But what a life!" said Thorold.
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