Wi their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
'And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.'"
La Vireville winced, and his hand went to the medal and the ring in his pocket.
"Your selection of poetry is not very cheerful, my small friend," he remarked.
Anne-Hilarion looked at him with large eyes of surprise. "Do you not like it, M. le Chevalier? I think it has so pleasant a sound. But I expect your head aches a good deal, does it not? Then I will not say any more of it. That is the end, I think." He had been sitting on a pile of dried seaweed at a little distance, whence he could see out of the cave entrance; now he got up, and came and slipped his hand into his friend's. "If you wish to sleep, M. le Chevalier——"