"No; I prefer 'The Shepherds.' That is the one we used to sing at home."
"Very well, then. Here goes, 'The Shepherds.'"
And in a low voice, with his head under the bed-curtains, Salvette begins to sing. At the last verse, when the shepherds have laid down their offering of fresh eggs and cheeses, and Saint Joseph speeds them with kind words,—
"Shepherds,
Take your leave,"—
poor Bernadou slips back and falls heavily on his pillow.
His comrade, who believes that he has gone to sleep again, shakes him by the arm and calls him; but the wounded man remains motionless, and the twig of holly lying beside him looks like the green palm that is laid on the couch of the dead. Salvette has understood; he is slightly tipsy with the celebration and the shock of his sorrow; and with a voice full of tears he sings out, filling the silent dormitory with the joyous refrain of Provence,—
"Shepherds,
Take your leave."