, but it was a glorious
fight--faith of Sergeant Barboux!"

And Sergeant Barboux, having set his vanity on its legs again, pulled
out his pipe and skin of tobacco.

"Hola, M. le Chameau!" he called; "the gentleman desires better music
than mine. Sing for him 'Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre'!"

M. le Chameau lifted his voice obediently; and thereupon John
recognised the note and knew to whose singing he had lain awake in
the woods so far behind and (it seemed) those ages ago.

He had been young then, and all possibilities of glory lay beyond the
horizons to which he was voyaging. Darkness had closed down on them,
but the beat of the paddles drove him forward. He stared up at the
peering stars and tried to bethink him that they looked down on the
same world that he had known--on Albany--Halifax--perhaps even on
Cleeve Court in Devonshire. The bowman's voice, ahead in the
darkness, kept time with the paddles:

"Il reviendra-z; a Paques--
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
Il reviendra-z a Paques,
Ou--a la Trinite!"

Yes, the question was of returning, now; a day had made that
difference. Yet why should he wish to return? Of what worth would
his return be? For weeks, for months, he had been living in a life
ahead, towards which these paddles were faithfully guiding him; and
if the hope had died out of it, and all the colour, what better lay
behind that he should seek back to it?--a mother, who had shown him
little love; a brother, who coldly considered him a fool; nearer, but
only a little nearer--for already the leagues between seemed
endless--a few friends, a few messmates . . .

His ribs hurt him intolerably; and his wrist, too, was painful.
Yet his wounds troubled him with no thought of death. On the
contrary, he felt quite sure of recovering and living on, and on, on,
on--in those unknown regions ahead . . .

"La Trinite se passe--
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
La Trinite se passe--
Malbrouck ne revient pas."

What were they like, those regions ahead? For he was young--less
than twenty--and a life almost as long as an ordinary man's might lie
before him yonder. He remembered an old discussion with a seminary
priest at Douai, on Nicodemus's visit by night and his question,
"How can a man be born when he is old?" . . . and all his thoughts
harked back to the Church he had left--that Church so Catholic, so
far-reaching, so secure of herself in all cl