s bleated on the rocks round the
Mas of the mountain. The fowls indeed were other, but to the common eye
even they seemed unchanged, for Jean-Marie had been at some pains to
match them before the arrival of his mother. Doves _roo-cooed_ about the
sheds and circled the tall pigeon-cote on its black pole with flapping
wings.

The house mistress was coming home.

That day Madame Amelie was to arrive with her son, the Professor, and
Jean-aux-Choux for an escort. And then at last Claire would learn--what
she had been wilfully kept in ignorance of by Jean-Marie--the reason for
the sudden desertion of the Abbe John on the sea-shore at Collioure.

There had been a struggle long and mighty within the stout breast of the
Miller-Alcalde before he could bring himself to play the traitor. After
all (so he argued with his conscience), he was only keeping his promise.
John d'Albret had bidden him be silent. Nevertheless, when he saw
Claire's wan and anxious face, he was often prompted to speak, even
though by so doing he might lose all hope of securing a mistress for the
new Mas of the Mountain, who in course of time would succeed Madame
Amelie there.

The grave, strong, sententious ex-Alcalde had allowed no lines of meal
dust to gather in the frosty curls of his beard since he had brought
Claire Agnew to France. Busy all day, he had rejoiced in working for
her. Then, spruce as any love-making youth, he had promenaded lengthily
and silently with her in the twilight, looking towards the distant sea,
across which from the southward his mother and his brothers were to
come.

The Miller Jean-Marie loved--after a fashion, his own silent, dour,
middle-aged fashion--the young girl Claire Agnew, whom he called his
"niece" in that strange land. For in this he followed the example of his
brother, judging that what was right for a learned professor of the
Sorbonne could not be wrong for a rough miller, earning his bread (and
his "niece's") by the turning of his grindstones and the gigantic whirl
of his sails.

Still, he had never spoken his love, but on this final morning the
miller had not gone forth. He was determined to speak at last. His
mother and brother were soon to arrive. The mistral drave too strong for
work. He had indeed little corn to grind--nothing that an hour earlier
on the morrow could not put to rights. Then and there he would speak to
Claire. At long and last he was sure of himself. His courage would not,
as usual, ooz