This eBook was produced by Andrew Sly
By Gilbert Parker
VII "Quoth little Garaine"
VIII As vain as Absalom
IX A little concerning the Chevalier de la Darante
X An officer of marines
XI The coming of Doltaire
XII "The point envenomed too!"
XIII A little boast
I have given the whole story here as though it had been thoughtout and written that Sunday afternoon which brought me good news ofJuste Duvarney. But it was not so. I did not choose to break therun of the tale to tell of other things and of the passing of time.The making took me many, many weeks, and in all that time I hadseen no face but Gabord's, and heard no voice but his, when hecame twice a day to bring me bread and water. He would answer noquestions concerning Juste Duvarney, or Voban, or Monsieur Doltaire,nor tell me anything of what was forward in the town. He had hadhis orders precise enough, he said. At the end of my hints andturnings and approaches, stretching himself up, and turning thecorn about with his foot (but not crushing it, for he saw that Iprized the poor little comrades), he would say:
"Snug, snug, quiet and warm! The cosiest nest in the world—aho!"
There was no coaxing him, and at last I desisted. I had nolight. With resolution I set my mind to see in spite of the dark,and at the end of a month I was able to note the outlines of mydungeon; nay, more, I was able to see my field of corn; and at lastwhat joy I had when, hearing a little rustle near me, I lookedclosely and beheld a mouse running across the floor! I straightwaybegan to scatter crumbs of bread, that it might, perhaps, come nearme—as at last it did.
I have not spoken at all of my wounds, though they gave me manypainful hours, and I had no attendance but my own and Gabord's. Thewound in my side was long healing, for it was more easily disturbedas I turned in my sleep, while I could ease my arm at all times,and it came on slowly. My sufferings drew on my flesh, my blood,and my spirits, and to this was added that disease inaction, thecorrosion of solitude, and the fever of suspense and uncertainty asto Alixe and Juste Duvarney. Every hour, every moment that I hadever passed in Alixe's presence, with many little incidents andscenes in which we shared, passed before me—vivid and cherishedpictures of the mind. One of those incidents I will set down here.
A year or so before, soon after Juste Duvarney came from Montreal,he brought in one day from hunting a young live hawk, and put itin a cage. When I came the next morning, Alixe met me, and askedme to see what he had brought. There, beside the kitchen door,overhung with morning-glories and flanked by hollyhocks, was alarge green cage, and in it the gray-brown hawk. "Poor thing,poor prisoned thing!" she said. "Look how strange and hunted itseems! See how its feathers stir! And those flashing, watchfuleyes, they seem to read through you, and to say, 'Who are you? Whatdo you want with me? Your world is not my world; your air is not myair; your homes are holes, and mine hangs high up between you andGod. Who are you? Why do you pen me? You have shut me in that I maynot travel, not even die out in the open world. All the world ismine; yours is only a stolen field. Who are you? What do you wantwith me? T