are. Sometimes they take delight in pricking a fallen
lion. Let his orders come from you till he has served his time."

"And you?"

"I have nothing to ask for myself."

"Monsieur, no man need ask favors of me. Let him not shirk his duty,
and the Chevalier's days shall be as peaceful as may be. And if he
serves his time in the company, why, he shall have his parcel of land
on the Great River. I shall not ask you any questions. His past
troubles are none of my affairs. Let him prove a man. I ask no more
of him than that. Father Chaumonot has told me that Monsieur le
Marquis has given a thousand livres to the cause. The Chevalier will
stand in well for the first promotion."

"Thank you, Major. It is nine. I will go and compose verses till
noon."

"And I shall arrange for some games this afternoon, feats of strength
and fencing. I would that my purse were heavy enough to offer prizes."

"Amen to that."

The major watched the poet as he made for the main cabin. "So the
Chevalier has a heart of gold?" he mused. "It must be rich, indeed, if
richer than this poet's. He's a good lad, and his part in life will
have a fine rounding out."

Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in the
main cabin. Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the
feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers
in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite
satisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred the
sureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he had
seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heart
of ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another?
Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier he
might be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moved
desultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The
_envoi_ first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has of
sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his
house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written:

"_Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers?
Where is La Place with its musketeers,
Golden nights and the May-time breeze?
And where are the belles of the balconies?_"

Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris?
Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went the
war with Spain?