Then the old man began to speak in a serious tone, quite different from his gentle laughter.  “Young Everett, of all the people you have seen, is there one whom you would wish to have even a moment of the tortures of hell?”

Nathaniel looked at him horrified.  “Why, no!” he cried indignantly.

“Then do you think your God less merciful than you?”

Nathaniel stared long into the steady eyes.  “Oh, do you mean it is not true?” He leaned close in an agony of hope.  “Sometimes I have thought it could not be true!”

The old soldier struck him on the shoulder inspiritingly, his weather-beaten face very grave.  “Aye, lad, I mean it is not true.  I am an old man and I have learned that they lie who say it is true.  There is no hell but in our own hearts when we do evil; and we can escape a way out of that by repenting and doing good.  There is no devil but our evil desires, and God gives to every man strength to fight with those.  There is only good in your love for the fair things God made and put into the world for us to love.  No man but only your own heart can tell you what is wrong and what is right.  Only do not fear, for all is well.”

The scene was never to fade from Nathaniel Everett’s eyes.  In all the after crises of his life the solemn words rang in his ears.

The old man suddenly smiled at him, all quaint drollery again.  “And now wait.”  He put hand to mouth and hallooed down the lane.  “Ho there!  LeMaury!”

As the Frenchman came into sight, the old man turned to Nathaniel, “Is this the gentleman who painted your willows?”

“Oh, aye!” cried Nathaniel.

The Frenchman dismounted near them with sparkling glances of inquiry.  “See, LeMaury, this is young Master Everett, whom you have bewitched with your paint-pots.  He would fain be an artist—­de gustibus—!  Perhaps you have in him an apprentice for your return to France.”

The artist looked sharply at Nathaniel.  “Eh, so?  Can young master draw?  Doth he know aught of chiaroscuro?”

Nathaniel blushed at his ignorance and looked timidly at his protector.

“Nay, he knows naught of your painter’s gibberish.  Give him a crayon and a bit of white bark and see can he make my picture.  I’ll lean my head back and fold my hands to sleep.”

In the long sunny quiet that followed, the old man really slipped away into a light doze, from which he was awakened by a loud shout from LeMaury.  The Frenchman had sprung upon Nathaniel and was kissing his cheeks, which were now crimson with excitement.  “Oh, it is Giotto come back again.  He shall be anything—­Watteau.”

Nathaniel broke away and ran toward the old man, his eyes blazing with hope.

“What does he mean?” he demanded.

“He means that you’re to be a painter and naught else, though how a man can choose to daub paint when there are swords to be carried—­well, well,” he pulled himself painfully to his feet, wincing at gouty twinges, “I will go and see your father about—­”