“I like the old man,” she said, with a change of tone. “What is he?”
“He is a rebel.”
“Proscribed?”
“No—they dare not do that. He was a great man in the sixties. You remember how in the great insurrection an unfailing supply of arms and ammunition came pouring into Poland over the Austrian frontier—more arms than the national government could find men for.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“That is the man,” said Deulin, with a nod of his head in the direction of the Prince Bukaty, who was talking and laughing near at hand.
“And the girl—it is very sad—I like her very much. She is gay and brave.”
“Ah!” said Deulin, “when a woman is gay and brave—and young—Heaven help us.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Deulin.”
“And when she is gay and brave, and . . . old . . . milady—God keep her,” he said with a grave bow.