Nathaniel blushed at his ignorance and looked timidly at his protector.
"Nay, he knows naught of your painter's gibberish. Give him a crayon and a bit of white bark and see can he make my picture. I'll lean my head back and fold my hands to sleep."
In the long sunny quiet that followed, the old man really slipped away into a light doze, from which he was awakened by a loud shout from LeMaury. The Frenchman had sprung upon Nathaniel and was kissing his cheeks, which were now crimson with excitement. "Oh, it is Giotto come back again. He shall be anything—Watteau."
Nathaniel broke away and ran toward the old man, his eyes blazing with hope.
"What does he mean?" he demanded.
"He means that you're to be a painter and naught else, though how a man can choose to daub paint when there are swords to be carried—well, well," he pulled himself painfully to his feet, wincing at gouty twinges, "I will go and see your father about—"
"Mais, Colonel Hall, dites! How can I arrange not to lose this pearl among artists?"
At the name, for he had not understood the title before, pronounced as it was in French, the boy fell back in horrified recognition. "Oh! you are Colonel Gideon Hall!"
"Aye, lad, who else?" The old soldier swung himself up to the saddle, groaning, "Oh, damn that wet ground! I fear I cannot sit the nag home."
"But then you are the enemy of God—the chosen one of Beelzebub——"