te my gratitude," said the older man.

"A line written by you is enough!" said the Doctor. "It would give me
immortality, humanly speaking."

"Can I give what I have not?" cried the elder.

Escorted by the crowd, which followed in their footsteps, like courtiers
round a king, at a respectful distance, Godefroid, with the old man and
the Doctor, made their way to the oozy shore, where as yet there were no
houses, and where the ferryman was waiting for them. The Doctor and the
stranger were talking together, not in Latin nor in any Gallic tongue,
but in an unknown language, and very gravely. They pointed with their
hands now to heaven and now to the earth. Sigier, to whom the paths by
the river were familiar, guided the venerable stranger with particular
care to the narrow planks which here and there bridged the mud; the
following watched them inquisitively; and some of the students envied
the privileged boy who might walk with these two great masters of
speech. Finally, the Doctor took leave of the stranger, and the
ferry-boat pushed off.

At the moment when the boat was afloat on the wide river, communicating
its motion to the soul, the sun pierced the clouds like a conflagration
blazing up on the horizon, and poured forth a flood of light, coloring
slate roof-tops and humbler thatch with a ruddy glow and tawny
reflections, fringed Philippe Auguste's towers with fire, flooded the
sky, dyed the waters, gilded the plants, and aroused the half-sleeping
insects. The immense shaft of light set the clouds on fire. It was like
the last verse of the daily hymn. Every heart was thrilled; nature in
such a moment is sublime.

As he gazed at the spectacle, the stranger's eyes moistened with the
tenderest of human tears: Godefroid too was weeping; his trembling
hand touched that of the elder man, who, looking round, confessed his
emotion. But thinking his dignity as a man compromised, no doubt, to
redeem it, he said in a deep voice:

"I weep for my native land. I am an exile! Young man, in such an hour as
this I left my home. There, at this hour, the fireflies are coming
out of their fragile dwellings and clinging like diamond sparks to the
leaves of the iris. At this hour the breeze, as sweet as the sweetest
poetry, rises up from a valley bathed in light, bearing on its wings
the richest fragrance. On the horizon I could see a golden city like
the Heavenly Jerusalem--a city whose name I may not speak. There, too,
a river win