“Oh, Laure, as I live and breathe, it’s cleared the ditch!
‘Monsieur Charette hath said to all his peers,
Monsieur Charette hath said to all his peers,
Come, good sirs!
Now let us sally forth and whip these curs!’”
The exultant chant wavered for a moment as the proud possessor of the ball cleared the ditch, too, and took up her triumphant lilt, crescendo:
“‘Take up thy gun, my good Gregory!
Take up thy virgin of ivory—
Fill up thy drinking gourd right cheerily—
Our comrades have gone down
To fight for Paris Town!’”
André de Chartreuil swung up beside her, breathless and laughing. Luck was with him; all the English that he had mastered as liaison officer raced to the tip of his tongue.
“But what a child! How old are you, Mlle. Fairfax Carter?”
“Too old,” mourned Fairfax, shaking her bright head till the curls danced in the sun. “Much, much too old—old enough to know better.” She pounced on the half-buried ball with a small shriek of excitement. “Ah ha, my little treasure, a mere turn of the wrist and—bet I make the gate in four strokes.”
“Bet you do not,” replied André obligingly.
“Done; all the mushrooms that you find in Daudin’s meadow to—to what?”
“To the very great privilege of kissing the tips of your fingers.” Young De Chartreuil’s voice was carefully light.