Noll found himself mute. But the sick man saw that he was affected, and patted him on the shoulder—it was only nerves, he said—it would pass—he would soon be giving them
Proud as kings and loud as carters,
Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs
—they should have the rousing chorus——
The distant sound of laughter below checked him, and brought a frown to his knit brows.
He sank back on his pillows, shutting his eyes, wearily.
But the noise below fretted his ears, and the baffling bursts of laughter and applause kept his mind going, seeking the cause, restless, inquisitive.
Noll drew a chair beside his bed, he offered to come and look after him; but André patted his hand, put his offer aside, laughed pathetically, said he would soon be all right—they should see—they would very soon again have
Proud as kings and loud as carters,
Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs.