THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
this life, my friend. The letting of blood in any but honest warfare sickens me and turns me to water. I leave the dogs without regret. But you, you and my gallant Cornbury.” He paused a moment, his hand to his brow, then raised his head with a glad smile.
“Jacquard, will you not come with us? If we get safe ashore I can perhaps give you a service which will requite you.”
But Jacquard was wagging his head.
“No, no, monsieur. It is too late. I am too old a bird. Would ye clip the eagle’s wings? Would ye pen the old falcon in a gilded humming-bird cage? I’ve chosen to fly broadly, and broadly I’ll fly till some stray bullet ends my flapping. And now make ready, madame. A warm cloak against the night air, a pillow—for boat-thwarts are none too soft; and when ye are ready I shall be at the door.” And he vanished, his bullet head, with its round wool cap, scraping at the door-jamb as he passed.
When he had gone, Barbara sank upon the bench at the table. Had it not been for the strong arms of Bras-de-Fer she must have
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