"His sister?"

"Yassam!"

"Or his wife, perhaps?"

"Yassam, ef they really wuz one."

"Was there ever?" demanded Josephine sharply.

"Might a-been none, er might a-been a dozen, fur's I know. Us
folks don' study much 'bout whut white folks does."

"You must have known if there was any such person about--you've
been here for years. Don't talk nonsense!"

Temptation showed on Sally's face. The next instant the film came
again over the small brown eyes, the mask shut down again, as the
ancient negro racial secretiveness resumed sway. Josephine did not
ask for what she knew would be a lie.

"Where is my own maid, Jeanne?" she demanded. "I am anxious about
her."

"I dunno, Ma'am."

"Is she safe--has she been cared for?"

"I reckon she's all right."

"Can you bring her to me?"

"I'll try, Ma'am."

But breakfast passed and no Jeanne appeared. From the great house
came no sounds of human occupancy. Better struggle, conflict, than
this ominous waiting, this silence, here in this place of infamy,
this home of horror, this house of some other woman. It was with a
sense of relief that at length she heard a human voice.

Outside, beneath the window, quavering sounds rose. The words were
French, Canadian French, scarce distinguishable to an ear trained
only in the Old World. It was an old man singing, the air perhaps
that of some old chanson of his own country, sung by villagers long
before:

"Souvenirs du jeune age
Sont gravis dans mon coeur,
Quand je pense au village,
Revenant du bonheur--"

The old voice halted, at length resuming, idly: "_Quand je
pense--quand je pense_." Then after humming the air for a little
time it broke out as though in the chorus, bold and strong:

"Rendes-moi ma patrie, ou laisses-moi mourir!"

The words came to her with a sudden thrill. What did they not mean
to the alien, to the prisoner, to the outcast, anywhere in all the
world! "Give me back my country, or let me die!"

She stepped to the window and looked down. An old man, brown, bent
and wrinkled, was digging about the shrubbery, perhaps preparing
some of the plants for their winter sleep. He was clad in leather
and linsey, and seemed ancient as the hills. He resumed his song.
Josephine leaned out from the casement and softly joined in the
refrain:

"Rendez-moi ma patrie, ou laissez-moi mourir!"

[Illustration: An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled]

The old man dropped his spade. "_Mon