"Evidently. In the old days I should have striven to console. What is it all about, lad? Your hand trembles. Do you know her?"
"I know something of her history," with half a truth. Victor's forehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.
"She is in trouble?"
"Yes."
The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons. "Whither is she bound?"
"Spain."
"Ah! A matter of careless politics, doubtless."
"Good!" thought the poet. "He does not ask her name."
"Has she a pleasant voice? I spoke to her, but she remained dumb. Spain," ruminating. "For me, New France. Lad, the thought of reaching that far country is inspiriting. I shall mope a while; but there is metal in me which needs but proper molding. … For what purpose had you drawn your sword?"
"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."