At last the morrow came. The provisions were shared, and, as usual with François, his spirits rose as he filled his stomach. He held the baby, and was queerly interested in this mystery of unwinking eyes. Might he give it of the bottle? He satisfied the child, who seemed fearless of that long, good-humored face. Might he hold it longer? It would relieve madame. He sang low to it a queer thief-song, and then another none there could understand.
"Ciel!" said the duke, who had slept off his splenetic mood; "you have a fine voice."
"Ah, would it were a hymn," said madame, "or a psalm of Clément Marot!"
"I know no hymns," said François, "but only some old choir chants."
Upon this he began to sing, low and sweet, one of the old Latin songs:
Salve, mundi salutare,
Salve, salve, Jesu care!
Cruel tuæ me aptare
Vellem vere, tu sols quare,
Da mihi tui capiam.
The rich voice which in his boyhood days had soared like a lark up among the arches of Notre Dame had come again. He heard himself with wonder and with sad thoughts of the chances his boyish haste had forever lost for him.
"And you a thief!" cried madame. "Where—where did you learn—"
But at this moment noises overhead put an end to all but listening. At last François said: "They move the casks. It were well to take to the caves." And this was hastily agreed to, when, of a sudden, the noises ceased.
François still urged instant flight; but the duke said, "No; we must wait," and gave no reasons. The thief did not agree, but held his tongue, as Mme. des Illes said nothing, and since, after all, this was a duke.