"Father," she said, "would you have me disarm you while we wait for Antonicq? Your cuirass must tire you. Let me unbuckle it."
"Thank you, child," the armorer answered, as he stepped to a lanthorn that hung from the wall, and lighted the same to dispel the shadows that began to invade the apartment. He then took off his casque, loosened his belt, and returned to his daughter: "But I shall remain armed. The Admiral issued orders that the troops rest a few hours, take supper, and hold themselves ready to march at a minute's notice."
"My God—is there another battle pending?"
"I do not know the projects of Admiral Coligny; all I know—and that is all that is of importance to me—I know we have a few hours to ourselves. Sit down there, dear child, so that the light of the lanthorn may fall upon your face—I wish to behold you at my leisure. This morning tears darkened my eyes almost continuously."
And after contemplating Anna Bell for a while with tender and silent curiosity, Odelin resumed:
"Yes, your sweet beauty is such as your charming little girl's face gave promise of. Oh! how often did I not leave my anvil and drop my hammer to fondle your blonde head! Your hair has grown darker. In your infancy you were as blonde as my sister Hena. Many a line in your face recalls hers. She and I resembled each other. But your beautiful brown and velvety eyes have remained the same—neither in color nor shape have they changed. I find the dimple still on your chin, and the two little ones on your cheeks each time you laughed, they also are still there—and you were always laughing—my dear, dear child!"
"Oh! how happy those days must have been to me!" murmured the young girl, as she recalled with bitter sorrow the hours of her innocent childhood. "I then was near you, father, and near mother—and besides—"
Anna Bell could not finish the sentence. The distressed girl broke down sobbing.
"Heaven and earth!" cried up the armorer, whose features, shortly before illumined with happiness, now were overcast with grief. "To think that you had to beg your bread! My poor child—perhaps beaten by the gypsy woman who kidnapped you from the loving paternal roof!"
"Father," replied the poor girl with a look of profound grief, "those days of misery were not my worst days. Oh, that I had always remained a beggar!"