southwards into the blue, pointing to his native home across the skyey
regions. The ascetic pallor of his face had given place to a glow of
triumph, his eyes flashed, he was as grand as a lion shaking his mane.

"But you, poor child," he went on, looking at Godefroid, whose cheeks
were beaded with glittering tears, "have you, like me, studied life
from blood-stained pages? What can you have to weep for, at your age?"

"Alas!" said Godefroid, "I regret a land more beautiful than any land
on earth--a land I never saw and yet remember. Oh, if I could but
cleave the air on beating wings, I would fly----"

"Whither?" asked the exile.

"Up there," replied the boy.

On hearing this answer, the stranger seemed surprised; he looked
darkly at the youth, who remained silent. They seemed to communicate
by an unspeakable effusion of the spirit, hearing each other's
yearnings in the teeming silence, and going forth side by side, like
two doves sweeping the air on equal wing, till the boat, touching the
strand of the island, roused them from their deep reverie.

Then, each lost in thought, they went together to the sergeant's
house.

"And so the boy believes that he is an angel exiled from heaven!"
thought the tall stranger. "Which of us all has a right to undeceive
him? Not I--I, who am so often lifted by some magic spell so far above
the earth; I who am dedicate to God; I who am a mystery to myself.