now, who has sprained his leg. But why
aren't you in uniform? Oh! how ugly you are in citizen's clothes! Have
you just come from Egypt? Did you bring me the silver-mounted pistols
and the beautiful curved sword? No? Then you are not nice, and I won't
kiss you any more. Oh, no, no! Don't be afraid! I love you just the
same!"

And the boy smothered the big brother with kisses while he showered
questions upon him. The Englishman, still seated in the carriage, looked
smilingly through the window at the scene.

In the midst of these fraternal embraces came the voice of a woman; the
voice of the mother.

"Where is he, my Roland, my darling son?" asked Madame de Montrevel,
in a voice fraught with such violent, joyous emotion that it was almost
painful. "Where is he? Can it be true that he has returned; really true
that he is not a prisoner, not dead? Is he really living?"

The child, at her voice, slipped from his brother's arms like an eel,
dropped upon his feet on the grass, and, as if moved by a spring,
bounded toward his mother.

"This way, mother; this way!" said he, dragging his mother, half dressed
as she was, toward Roland. When he saw his mother Roland could no longer
contain himself. He felt the sort of icicle that had petrified his
breast melt, and his heart beat like that of his fellowmen.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I was indeed ungrateful to God when life still
holds such joys for me."

And he fell sobbing upon Madame de Montrevel's neck without thinking of
Sir John, who felt his English phlegm disperse as he silently wiped away
the tears that flowed down his cheeks and moistened his lips. The
child, the mother, and Roland formed an adorable group of tenderness and
emotion.

Suddenly little Edouard, like a leaf tossed about by the wind, flew from
the group, exclaiming: "Sister Amelie! Why, where is she?" and he rushed
toward the house, repeating: "Sister Amelie, wake up! Get up! Hurry up!"

And then the child could be heard kicking and rapping against a door.
Silence followed. Then little Edouard shouted: "Help, mother! Help,
brother Roland! Sister Amelie is ill!"

Madame de Montrevel and her son flew toward the house. Sir John,
consummate tourist that he was, always carried a lancet and a smelling
bottle in his pocket. He jumped from the carriage and, obeying his first
impulse, hurried up the portico. There he paused, reflecting that he had
not been introduced, an all-important formality for an Englishman.