The warmth of his heart increased when one of the Canadians took a violin from a cloth cover and began to play wailing old airs.  Like so many others, Robert was not made melancholy by melancholy music.  Instead, he saw through a pleasing glow and the world grew poetic and tender.  The fire sank and Americans, French, Canadians and Indians listened with the same silent interest.  Presently the violinist played a livelier tune and the habitants sang to the music: 

“Malbrouck, s’en va t-en guerre
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrouck s’en va t-en guerre
Ne sait quand reviendra.”

Then he left Malbrouck, and it was: 

“Hier sur le pont d’Avignon
J’ai oui chanter la belle
Lon, la,
J’ai oui chanter la belle
Elle chantait d’un ton si doux
Comme une demoiselle
Lon, la,
Comme une demoiselle.”

The Canadians sang well, particularly in “The Bridge of Avignon,” and the dying fire, the black woods around them and the sighing wind created an effect that no stage scenery could ever have given it.  When the last note melted with the wind de Courcelles sighed a little and stared into the sinking fire.

“It is a fair country, sweet France,” he said; “I myself have stood upon the bridge of Avignon, and I have watched the pretty girls.  It may be that I have had a kiss or two, but all that is far away now.  This is a bolder country than France, Mr. Lennox, larger, more majestic, but it is wild and savage, and will be so for many years to come.  Nor can the rules that apply to old and civilized Europe apply here, where the deeds of men, like the land, are wilder, too.”

Robert was conscious of some meaning in his words, perhaps a trace of apology for a deed that he had done or would do, but in the mind of young Lennox men’s standards should be the same, whether in the wilderness of New York and Canada or in the open fields of France and England.  De Courcelles, thoughtful for a moment, turned suddenly to the man with the violin and cried: 

“Play!  Play again!”

The man played quaint old airs, folk songs that had been brought from Normandy and Brittany, and the habitants sang them in low voices or rather hummed them in the subdued manner that seemed fitting to the night, since the black shadows were creeping up closer, leaving only the fire, as a core of light with the dusky figures around it.  During all the talk the Indians had been silent.  They had eaten their food and remained now, sitting in Turkish fashion, the flickering flames that played across their faces giving to them a look sinister and menacing to the last degree.

The Frenchmen, too, fell silent, as if their courtesy was exhausted and conversation had become an effort.  The last of the old French airs was finished, and the player put his violin away.  Jumonville, who had spoken but little, threw a fresh stick on the fire and looked at the black wall of circling forest.