“Have you a wife, my friend?” bowing.
“No, no, but I’ve a sweetheart in old Ireland.”
“Happy man!” bowing.
“But I go my way alone now.”
“Lucky dog!” said the Marquis, with provincial rudeness, bowing and bowing.
“And there is one question which I wish to ask you. I have been telling the home people that you are a prophet, and not much like an old prophet do you look now—pardon me, your Honor. You once told me that you carried a secret in your heart that was to free America. Do you carry that secret now?”
“Yes, yes, my friend, from the cedars. The French fleet came; that was a part of my secret. But I am carrying a greater one. You will soon hear the bugles of Auvergne. When you hear the bugles of Auvergne, then you will believe that my soul is true to America. Dennis, let me take your hand.”
He took the Irishman’s hand, bowing.
“There is true blood in that hand,” bowing.