il.
Satan fell, but he believed and he admired, as the English Milton wisely
shows it."

I was most glad that my father came between us at that moment; but
before Monsieur left, he said to me, "You have challenged me. Beware: I
have begun this chase. Yet I would rather be your follower, rather
have your arrow in me, than be your hunter." He said it with a sort of
warmth, which I knew was a glow in his senses merely; he was heated with
his own eloquence.

"Wait," returned I. "You have heard the story of King Artus?"

He thought a moment. "No, no. I never was a child as other children. I
was always comrade to the imps."

"King Artus," said I, "was most fond of hunting." (It is but a legend
with its moral, as you know.) "It was forbidden by the priests to hunt
while mass was being said. One day, at the lifting of the host, the
King, hearing a hound bay, rushed out, and gathered his pack together;
but as they went, a whirlwind caught them up into the air, where they
continue to this day, following a lonely trail, never resting, and all
the game they get is one fly every seventh year. And now, when all on a
sudden at night you hear the trees and leaves and the sleepy birds and
crickets stir, it is the old King hunting--for the fox he never gets."

Monsieur looked at me with curious intentness. "You have a great gift,"
he said; "you make your point by allusion. I follow you. But see: when
I am blown into the air I shall not ride alone. Happiness is the fox we
ride to cover, you and I, though we find but a firefly in the end."

"A poor reply," I remarked easily; "not worthy of you."

"As worthy as I am of you," he rejoined; then he kissed my hand. "I will
see you at mass to-morrow."

Unconsciously, I rubbed the hand he kissed with my handkerchief.

"I am not to be provoked," he said. "It is much to have you treat my
kiss with consequence."

March 25. No news of Robert all this month. Gabord has been away in
Montreal. I see Voban only now and then, and he is strange in manner,
and can do nothing. Mathilde is better--so still and desolate, yet not
wild; but her memory is all gone, all save for that "Francois Bigot is a
devil." My father has taken anew a strong dislike to Monsieur Doltaire,
because of talk that is abroad concerning him and Madame Cournal. I once
thought she was much sinned against, but now I am sure she is not to be
defended. She is most defiant, though people dare not shut their doors
against her.