"You see the coming of a great king," said she, looking down thoughtfully, her chin, upon her hand.
"And all people bow their heads," I said.
"Yes," she added, with a sigh, "and give their bodies to be burned, if he ask it. The king is cruel—sometimes."
"Dieu!" said I. "He has many captives."
She broke a sprig of fern, twirling it in her fingers; her big eyes looked up at me, and saw, I know, to the bottom of my soul.
"But long live the king!" said she, her lips trembling, her cheeks as red as the rose upon her bosom.
"Long live the king!" I murmured.
We dared go no farther. Sweet philosopher, inspired of Heaven, I could not bear the look of her, and rose quickly with dim eyes and went out of the open door. A revelation had come to me. Mere de Dieu! how I loved that woman so fashioned in thy image! She followed me, and laid her hand upon my arm tenderly, while I shook with emotion.
"Captain," said she, in that sweet voice, "captain, what have I done?"
It was the first day of the Indian summer, a memorable season that year, when, according to an old legend, the Great Father sits idly on the mountain-tops and blows the smoke of his long pipe into the valleys. In a moment I was quite calm, and stood looking off to the hazy hollows of the far field. I gave her my arm without speaking, and we walked slowly down a garden path. For a time neither broke the silence.