“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?  Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis courts?  With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on.  The truth is, the poet was homesick.  But he was not alone in this affliction.

Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master’s berthroom.  He was reading from his favorite book.  Time after time he would look toward the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing.  Finally he closed the book and rose to gaze out upon the sea.  In fancy he could see the hills of Perigny.  The snow had left them by now.  They were green and soft, rolling eastward as far as the eye could see.  Old Martin’s daughter was with the kine in the meadows.  The shepherd dog was rolling in the grass at her feet.  Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to a strange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge of separation?  He sobbed noiselessly.  The book slipped from his fingers to the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of his gentle dreaming.

“Is it you, lad?”

“Yes, Monsieur Paul,” swallowing desperately.

“What is the matter?”