name you invoke, is always close to my heart.  That royal duchess, whom you are privileged to see daily, monsieur, and I—­never—­is so dear and sacred to me that I think of her with a prayer. . . .  But my life is here. . . .  Monsieur, in this new world, no man can say to me—­’Come,’ or ‘Go.’  I am as free as the Indian.  But the pretender to the throne of France, the puppet of Russia, of England, of the enemies of my country,—­a slave to policy and intrigue—­a chained wanderer about Europe—­O my God! to be such a pretender—­gasping for air—­for light—­as I gasped in Ste. Pelagie!—­O let me be a free man—­a free man!”

The old churchman whispered over and over—­

“My royal son!”

My arms dropped relaxed.

There was another reason.  I did not give it.  I would not give it.

We heard the spring wind following the river channel—­and a far faint call that I knew so well—­the triangular wild flock in the upper air, flying north.

“Honk! honk!” It was the jubilant cry of freedom!

“Madame,” said Abbe Edgeworth, resting his head on his hands, “I have seen many stubborn Bourbons, but he is the most obstinate of them all.  We do not make as much impression on him as that little padlocked book.”

Her terrified eyes darted at him—­and hid their panic.

“Monsieur Abbe,” she exclaimed piercingly, “tell him no woman will love him for throwing away a kingdom!”

The priest began once more.

“You will not resign your rights?”

“No.”

“You will not exercise them?”

“No.”

“If I postpone my departure from to-day until to-morrow, or next week, or next month, is there any possibility of your reconsidering this decision?”

“No.”

“Monseigneur, must I leave you with this answer?”

“Your staying cannot alter it, Monsieur Abbe.”

“You understand this ends all overtures from France?”

“I understand.”

“Is there nothing that you would ask?”

“I would ask Madame d’Angouleme to remember me.”

[Illustration:  “Louis!  You are a king!  You are a king!”]

He came forward like a courtier, lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed it.

“With your permission, Monseigneur, I will now retire and ride slowly back along the river until you overtake me.  I should like to have some time for solitary thought.”

“You have my permission, Monsieur Abbe.”

He bowed to Madame de Ferrier, and so moving to the door, he bowed again to me, and took his leave.

His horse’s impatient start, and his remonstrance as he mounted, came plainly to our ears.  The regular beat of hoofs upon the sward followed; then an alternating tap-tap of horse’s feet diminished down the trail.

Eagle and I avoided looking at each other.

A bird inquired through the door with inquisitive chirp, and was away.