What had possessed him?  Was he running mad?  Was he to draw that sword that had fought for justice and liberty as the comrade of murderers and pirates?  Had he sunk so low that he was willing to choose the company of a drunken ruffian; he who had been the comrade of Thomas Harrison? The dead hand still held his.  The Fifth Monarchy might be a dream, the hope of a Republic an idle fancy, but he had not been trained to fight for theories alone.  Justice, law, liberty were solid facts; those were the watchwords General Harrison had taught him; for those he had lived, to those he would be true, whether good or evil fortune awaited him, whether there were, indeed, a heavenly reward for the victor, or but the abyss of forgetfulness at the end of the strife.  He stopped short.