"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.
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