“Charmante Gabrielle,
Percé de mille dards,
Quand la gloire m’appelle
A la suite de Mars,
Cruelle départie.
Que ne suis-je sans vie
Ou sans amour?”
Gabrielle looked, perhaps, a trifle too much pleased at the somewhat free admiration expressed in these verses, and spite of Bellegarde, approached the Don to thank him after he had finished.
“Lady, did my song please you?” said he softly, trying to kiss her hand. “If it had any merit you inspired me.”
“Yes,” replied she musingly. “You wished just now you were my prisoner. Had you been, I should long ago have freed you if you had sung to me like that, I am sure.”
“And why?” asked he.
“Because you have something in your voice I should have feared to hear too often,” said she in a low voice, lest Bellegarde should hear her.
“Then in that case I would always have remained your voluntary captive, ma belle.”
How long this conversation might have continued authorities do not state; but Bellegarde, now really displeased, approached the whispering pair, giving an indignant glance at Gabrielle and a look full of reproach at the Don.
“Come, come, Don Juan!” said he. “It is time to go. Where are our horses? The day wears on, we shall scarce reach the camp ere sundown.”
“Ventre Saint Gris!” said the Spaniard, starting, “there is surely no need for such haste.”