"Mais, Colonel Hall, dites! How can I arrange not to lose this pearl among artists?"
At the name, for he had not understood the title before, pronounced as it was in French, the boy fell back in horrified recognition. "Oh! you are Colonel Gideon Hall!"
"Aye, lad, who else?" The old soldier swung himself up to the saddle, groaning, "Oh, damn that wet ground! I fear I cannot sit the nag home."
"But then you are the enemy of God—the chosen one of Beelzebub"
"Do they call me that in polite and pious Hillsboro?"
The Frenchman broke in, impatient of this incomprehensible talk. "See, boy, you—Everett—I go back to France now soon. I lie next Friday night at Woodburn. If you come to me there we will go together to France—to Paris—you will be the great artist"
He was silenced by a gesture from the colonel, who now sat very straight on his horse and beckoned to Nathaniel. The boy came timorously. "You have heard lies about me, Everett. Be man enough to trust your own heart." He broke into a half-sad little laugh at Nathaniel's face of fascinated repulsion.
"You can laugh now," whispered the boy, close at his knee, "but when you come to die? Why, even my father trembles at the thought of death. Oh, if I could but believe you!"
"Faugh! To fear death when one has done his best!"
He had turned his horse s head, but Nathaniel called after him, bringing out the awful words with an effort. "But they say—that you do not believe in God."
