Ferrier nodded.

"We are making a mistake, Philippe!" said the uncle.

"Let him go," said the nephew. "He will probably slip away at once out
of St. Bartholomew's. We can do nothing until we are certain of the
powers behind him. Endless disaster to the child himself might result
from our interference. If France were ready now to take back her king,
would she accept an imbecile?"

The old De Ferrier groaned aloud.

"Bellenger is not a bad man," added Philippe.

Eagle watched her playmate until the closing gate hid him from sight.
She remembered having once implored her nurse for a small plaster image
displayed in a shop. It could not speak, nor move, nor love her in
return. But she cried secretly all night to have it in her arms, ashamed
of the unreasonable desire, but conscious that she could not be appeased
by anything else. That plaster image denied to her symbolized the
strongest passion of her life.

The pigeons wheeled around St. Bat's tower, or strutted burnished on the
wall. The bell, which she had forgotten since sitting with the boy in
front of the blacksmith shop, again boomed out its record of time;
though it seemed to Eagle that a long, lonesome period like eternity had
begun.