"Then, let's go at once."

"Come on," said Sir John; and he went out, followed by Edouard.

A moment later, Amelie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left the
room. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her departure, so
interested were they in a serious discussion. Madame de Montrevel
tried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother with him on the
morrow's hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard was to become a
soldier like his father and brother, the sooner he learned to handle a
gun and become familiar with powder and ball the better. The discussion
was not yet ended when Edouard returned with his gun slung over his
shoulder.

"Look, brother," said he, turning to Roland; "just see what a fine
present Sir John has given me." And he looked gratefully at Sir John,
who stood in the doorway vainly seeking Amelie with his eyes.

It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with that
plainness of ornament and simplicity of form peculiar to English
weapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols, of which Roland
had had opportunity to test the accuracy, the rifle was made by the
celebrated Manton, and carried a twenty-four calibre bullet. That it had
been originally intended for a woman was easily seen by the shortness
of the stock and the velvet pad on the trigger. This original purpose of
the weapon made it peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve.

Roland took the rifle from his brother's shoulder, looked at it
knowingly, tried its action, sighted it, tossed it from one hand to the
other, and then, giving it back to Edouard, said: "Thank Sir John again.
You have a rifle fit for a king's son. Let's go and try it."

All three went out to try Sir John's rifle, leaving Madame de Montrevel
as sad as Thetis when she saw Achilles in his woman's garb draw the
sword of Ulysses from its scabbard.

A quarter of an hour later, Edouard returned triumphantly. He brought
his mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference of a hat, in which
he had put ten bullets out of twelve. The two men had remained behind in
the park conversing.

Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard's slightly boastful account of
his prowess. Then she looked at him with that deep and holy sorrow of
mothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood it sheds. Oh!
ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that look bent upon him
and does not eternally remember it. Then, after a few seconds of this
painful contem