The other answered in the negative.

“He has some qualities that are very rare in French poetry,” went on Mr. Howard.  “He makes one think of Wordsworth.  I happened to read a homely little ballad of his,—­a story of some of that tragedy of things that we spoke of; one could name hundreds of such poems quite as good, I suppose, but this happened to be the one I came across, and I could not help thinking of Miss Davis and wondering if she were really so cold and so hard that she could have heard this story without shuddering.  For it really shook me very much.”

“What is it?” the other asked.

“I can tell you the story in a few words,” said Mr. Howard.  “To me it was one of those flashes of beauty that frighten one and haunt him long afterwards; and I do not quite like to think about it again.”

The speaker’s voice dropped, and the girl involuntarily crept a little nearer to hear him; there was a tree in front of her, and she leaned against it, breathing very hard, tho making no sound.

“The ballad is called ‘Jacques the Mason,’” said Mr. Howard, “There are three little pictures in it; in the first of them you see two men setting off to their work together, one of them bidding his wife and children good-by, and promising to return with his friend for an evening’s feast, because the great building is to be finished.  Then you see them at work, swarming upon the structure and rejoicing in their success; and then you hear the shouts of the crowd as the scaffolding breaks, and see those two men hanging over the abyss, clinging to a little plank.  It is not strong enough to hold them both, and it is cracking, and that means a fearful death; they try to cling to the stones of the building and cannot, and so there comes one of those fearful moments that makes a man’s heart break to think of.  Then in the fearful silence you hear one of the men whisper that he has three children and a wife; and you see the other gaze at him an instant with terror in his eyes, and then let go his hold and shoot down to the street below.  And that is all of the story.”

Mr. Howard stopped, and there followed a long silence; afterwards he went on, his voice trembling:  “That is all,” he said, “except of course that the man was killed.  And I can think of nothing but that body hurled down through the air, and the crushed figure and the writhing limbs.  I fancy the epic grandeur of soul of that poor ignorant laborer, and the glory that must have flamed up in his heart at that great instant; so I find it a dreadful poem, and wonder if it would not frighten that careless girl to read it.”

Mr. Howard stopped again, and the officer asked if the story were true.