In the old days I should have striven to console. What is
it all about, lad? Your hand trembles. Do you know her?"
"I know something of her history," with half a truth. Victor's
forehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.
"She is in trouble?"
"Yes."
The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons. "Whither is she bound?"
"Spain."
"Ah! A matter of careless politics, doubtless."
"Good!" thought the poet. "He does not ask her name."
"Has she a pleasant voice? I spoke to her, but she remained dumb.
Spain," ruminating. "For me, New France. Lad, the thought of reaching
that far country is inspiriting. I shall mope a while; but there is
metal in me which needs but proper molding. . . . For what purpose had
you drawn your sword?"
"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."
"On my account?" sternly. "You did wrong."
"I can not change the heat of my blood," carelessly.
"No; but you can lose it, and at present it is very precious to me. He
refused? The vicomte has sound judgment."
"Oh, he and I shall be killing each other one of these fine days; but
not wholly on your account, Paul," gloom wrinkling his brow, as if the
enlightening finger of prescience had touched it.
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