ere swept to her. That, I say, is what I suppose this love to be;
but for myself I shall never try it. Since le bon Dieu broke the
pitcher its pieces are scattered all over me, within; they hold
nothing, but there they lie shining in their useless fashion."

"Not useless, perhaps, Bateese."

"In their useless fashion," he persisted. "They will smile and be
gay at the sight of a pretty girl, or at the wild creatures in the
woods yonder, or at the thoughts in a song, or for no better reason
than that the day is bright and the air warm. But they can store
nothing. It is the same with religion, monsieur, and with affairs of
State; neither troubles my head. Dominique is devout, for example;
and Father Launoy comes to talk with him, which makes him gloomy.
The reverend Father just hears my sins and lets me go; he knows well
enough that Bateese does not count. And then he and Dominique sit
and talk politics by the hour. The Father declares that all the
English are devils, and that anyone who fights for the Holy Church
and is killed by them will rise again the third day."

John laughed aloud this time.

"I too think the reverend Father must be making some mistake," said
Bateese gravely. "No doubt he has been misinformed."

"No doubt. For suppose now that I were a devil?"

"Oh, m'sieur," Bateese expostulated. "_Ca serait bien dommage!_
But I hope, in any case, God would pardon me for talking with you,
seeing that to contain anything, even hatred, is beyond me."

"Shall I tell you what I think, Bateese? I think we are all pitchers
and perhaps made to be broken. Ten days ago I was brimful of
ambitions; someone--le bon Dieu, or General Abercromby--has toppled
me over and spilt them all; and here I lie on my side, not broken,
but full of emptiness."

"Heh, heh--'full of emptiness'!" chuckled Bateese, to whom the phrase
was new.

"It may be that in time someone will set me up again and pour into me
wine of another sort. I hope for this, because it is painful to lie
upset and empty; and I do not wish to be broken, for that must be
even more painful--at the time, eh?"

Bateese glanced up, with a twitch of remembered pain.

"Indeed, m'sieur, it hurt--at the time."

"But afterwards--when the pieces have no more trouble, being released
from pride--the pride of being a pitcher! Is it useless they are as
they lie upturned, reflecting--what? My friend, if we only knew this
we might discover that now, when it ca