The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass’d across his cheek, but could not tarry […]

The enemy may be still excubant: and we had better not disperse till daylight.

I am the one who wakes up nearest to myself, and the continual horror that comes from the realisation of this individuality has made me almost to believe that the reactions of others to my horrible self […] are small enough, in comparison, to be counted as the others' loss or to be beaten down by one unsulky thought.

to smother a fire with ashes