“He waits at the threshold stone—
(Why should the key-hole rust?)
The eagle broods at his side,
(Why should the blind be drawn?)
Long has he watched, and far has he called
The lonely sentinel of the North:
“Who goes there?” to the wandering soul:
Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol
(Why should the key-hole rust?)
The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home,
(Why should the blind be drawn?)”
Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young girl’s golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with the broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of the house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow hair falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin and a broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet blue, rare and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few moments, unaware of Pierre’s presence. But presently she saw him leaning against the tree, and she started as from a spirit.
“Monsieur!” she said—“Pierre!” and stepped forward again from the doorway.
He came to her, and “Ah, p’tite Lucille,” he said, “you remember me, eh?—and yet so many years ago!”
“But you remember me,” she answered, “and I have changed so much!”
“It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will.”
Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking.
She made a little gesture of deprecation. “I was a child,” she said.
Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. “What matter? It is sex that I mean. What difference to me—five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It is only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age—mais oui!”
She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre’s own heart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancient coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady of eye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with herself. He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that what she was just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of a life leave their mark, and show through every phase of emotion and incident whether it be light or grave.