sleep. His mouth was open and
his breath came stertorously. The face was purple, and large purple
veins stood out on the mottled forehead. His scanty white hair was
draggled over his cheek. On the floor was a broken glass, wet stains
still lay on the boards, and the place reeked of spirits. The four
looked for a second--I do not think longer at him whom they would have
made their king. They did not look at each other. With one accord
they moved out, and Mr. Fish, who was last, closed the door very gently
behind him.

In the hall below Mr. Galloway turned to me. "Our mission is ended,
Mr. Townshend. I have to thank you for your courtesy." Then to the
others, "If we order the coaches now, we may get well on the way to
Verona ere sundown."

An hour later two coaches rolled out of the courtyard of the Tre Croci.
As they passed, a window was half-opened on the upper floor, and a head
looked out. A line of a song came down, a song sung in a strange
quavering voice. It was the catch I had heard the night before:

"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine--e!"

It was true. The company came late indeed--too late by forty
years. . . .

AVIGNON

1759

Hearts to break but nane to sell,
Gear to tine but nane to hain;--
We maun dree a weary spell
Ere our lad comes back again.

I walk abroad on winter days,
When storms have stripped the wide champaign,
For northern winds have norland ways,
And scents of Badenoch haunt the rain.
And by the lipping river path,
When in the fog the Rhone runs grey,
I see the heather of the Strath,
And watch the salmon leap in Spey.

The hills are feathered with young trees,
I set them for my children's boys.
I made a garden deep in ease,
A pleasance for my lady's joys.
Strangers have heired them. Long ago
She died,--kind fortune thus to die;
And my one son by Beauly flow
Gave up the soul that could not lie.

Old, elbow-worn, and pinched I bide
The final toll the gods may take.
The laggard years have quenched my pride;
They cannot kill the ache, the ache.

Weep not the dead, for they have sleep
Who lie at home: but ah, for me
In the deep grave my heart will weep
With longing for my lost countrie.

Hearts to break but nane to sell,
Gear to tine but nane to hain;--
We maun dree a weary spell
Ere our lad comes back