The boy's big eyes looked into mine with an inquiring gaze, and then, taking my hand, he quaintly said:
"I like you."
There was nothing impertinent in the tone or manner; it was the hearty expression of his unsophisticated thought.
"He is an Englishman," continued M. Danneris, "and will be very kind to you. Remember that you owe him respect and implicit obedience."
"Then he hates the Austrians—he whose country is free knows how to give sympathy to a poor Hungarian. This good Englishman shall see for himself how our noble people suffer at the hands of tyrants."
"Hush, hush, Jules! You must not talk like this. Is it not extraordinary," said M. Danneris, turning to me, "that even the very children of this oppressed race fill their minds with a sense of wrong?"
"No wonder," I replied, "if but half you have told me is true."
"When I am a man," flashed Jules, "I will kill the Austrians—they are not worthy to live."
"Jules," I said soothingly, "I am just going for a stroll over the fields toward Louvain. Ask permission from monsieur, your professor, to join me."
Danneris smiled. "That was well done," he said. "You cannot too soon become acquainted. Call here for the boy to-morrow midday. I will see that he is prepared."