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.

“At least he has escaped,” said Robert.

“The bullet that kills him is not molded and never will be,” said Tayoga.

“How do you know?” asked Willet, startled.

“Because Tododaho has whispered it to me.  I heard his voice in the breath of the wind as we pursued through the forest.”

Robert caught a glimpse of St. Luc, in his uniform of white and silver, still apparently unstained, erect and defiant.  Then he disappeared and they heard only the singing of the wind among the leaves.