Subdued by his daughter's serenity, the baron was quiet. Crushed by such scorn, Gilbert lowered his head. Something ran through his heart much like hatred. He would have preferred Philip Taverney's sword or even a cut of his whip. He came near swooning.
Luckily the speechmaking was over and the procession moved forward once more. Andrea was carried on, and faded as in a dream.
Gilbert thought he was alone in his grief, believing that he could never support the weight of such misfortune. But a hand was laid on his shoulder.
Turning, he saw Philip, who came smiling toward him, having dismounted and given his steed to his orderly to hold.
"I should like to hear what has happened," he said, "and how my poor Gilbert has come to Paris?"
This frank and cordial greeting touched the young man.
"What was I to do on the old place?" he asked, with a sigh, torn from his wild stoicism. "I should have died of hunger, ignorance and despair."
Philip started, for his impartial mind, like Andrea's, was struck by the painful loneliness in which the youth was left.
"But do you imagine that you can succeed in Paris, a poor boy, without resources and protectors?"
"I do. The man who can work rarely dies of want, where so many want to live without working."