His gaze returned to her––to the bonnet now resting in her lap––to the hand beside it.
“It is my native land,” he replied.
“Then why did you leave it––in its trouble?” she asked impulsively.
“Why?” he repeated, regarding her keenly; but in a moment he added: “For several reasons. I returned from Africa, from serving under Bugeaud, to find the red flag waving in Paris; the king fled!”
“Oh,” she said, quickly, “a king should––”
“What?” he asked, as she paused.
“I was going to say it was better to die like a king than––”
“Than live an outcast!” he concluded for her, a shadow on his brow.
She nodded. “At any rate, that is the way they always do in the plays,” she added brightly. “But you were saying you found your real king fled?”
His heavy brows contracted, though he answered readily enough: “Yes, the king had fled. A kinsman 90 in whose house I had been reared then bade me head a movement for the restoration of the royal fugitive. For what object? The regency was doomed. The king, a May-fly!”