there were no houses, and where the ferryman was waiting for them. The
Doctor and the stranger were talking together, not in Latin nor in any
Gallic tongue, but in an unknown language, and very gravely. They
pointed with their hands now to heaven and now to the earth. Sigier,
to whom the paths by the river were familiar, guided the venerable
stranger with particular care to the narrow planks which here and
there bridged the mud; the following watched them inquisitively; and
some of the students envied the privileged boy who might walk with
these two great masters of speech. Finally, the Doctor took leave of
the stranger, and the ferry-boat pushed off.

At the moment when the boat was afloat on the wide river,
communicating its motion to the soul, the sun pierced the clouds like
a conflagration blazing up on the horizon, and poured forth a flood of
light, coloring slate roof-tops and humbler thatch with a ruddy glow
and tawny reflections, fringed Philippe Auguste's towers with fire,
flooded the sky, dyed the waters, gilded the plants, and aroused the
half-sleeping insects. The immense shaft of light set the clouds on
fire. It was like the last verse of the daily hymn. Every heart was
thrilled; nature in such a moment is sublime.

As he gazed at the spectacle, the stranger's eyes moistened with the
tenderest of human tears: Godefroid too was weeping; his trembling
hand touched that of the elder man, who, looking round, confessed his
emotion. But thinking his dignity as a man compromised, no doubt, to
redeem it, he said in a deep voice:

"I weep for my native land. I am an exile! Young man, in such an hour
as this I left my home. There, at this hour, the fireflies are coming
out of their fragile dwellings and clinging like diamond sparks to the