"Yes; but as yet none know. They will soon, I fear."
"But she took it, after all. What will Friends say?"
"She was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and I do advise them to be careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mild maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws, if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went on their way again, for a long time silent.
At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, and Schmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, René, it is worth while to cross the ocean to see King Autumn die thus gloriously. How peaceful is the time! They call this pause when regret doth make the great Reaper linger pitiful—they call it the Indian summer."
"And we, the summer of St. Martin."
"And we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather, Spätsommer; but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock in mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is as still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, René, how the breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is—ah, yes—the Angelus of evening."
His contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the young man's mood. "A pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colors on the water!"
"Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes the winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of another world, René—the world of men. I want to ask of you a question; nay, many questions." His tone changed as he spoke. "I may embarrass you."
De Courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well be the case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which you may not freely ask me."