He bent his cheek to the
instrument--almost as brown as the wood itself--and made a pass or two in
the air with the bow, as if to recall a former touch and tune. A
satisfied look shot up in his face, and then with an almost impossible
softness he drew the bow across the strings, getting a distant delicate
note, which seemed to float and tenderly multiply upon itself--a
variation, indeed, of the tune which De Casson had played. A rapt look
came into his eyes. And all that look behind the general look of his
face--the look which has to do with a man's past or future--deepened and
spread, till you saw, for once in a way, a strong soldier turned artist,
yet only what was masculine and strong. The music deepened also, and, as
the priest opened the door, swept against him like a wind so warm that a
moisture came to his eyes. "Iberville!" he said, in a glad voice.
"Pierre!"
The violin was down on the instant. "My dear abbe!" he cried. And then
the two embraced.
"How do you like my entrance?" said the young man. "But I had to
provide my own music!" He laughed, and ran his hands affectionately down
the arms of the priest.
"I had been playing the same old chansonette--"
"With your original variations?"
"With my poor variations, just before you came in; and that done--"
"Yes, yes, abbe, I know the rest: prayers for the safe return of the
sailor, who for four years or nearly has been learning war in King
Louis's ships, and forgetting the good old way of fighting by land, at
which he once served his prentice time--with your blessing, my old tutor,
my good fighting abbe! Do you remember when we stopped those Dutchmen on
the Richelieu, and you--"
The priest interrupted with a laugh.
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