He held a moment to the boat, taking my hand as I came by him.

“Bell,” said he, “henceforward may there be peace between you and me.”

“And between your country and mine,” I answered.

And, thank God! the war was soon over, and ever since there has been peace between the two great peoples.  I rejoice that even we old men have washed our hearts of bitterness, and that the young have now more sense of brotherhood.

Above all price are the words of a wise man, but silence, that is the great counsellor.  In silence wisdom enters the heart and understanding puts forth her voice.  In the hush of that night ride I grew to manhood; I put away childish things.  I saw, or thought I saw, the two great powers of good and evil.  One was love, with the power of God in it to lift up, to ennoble; the other, love’s counterfeit, a cunning device of the devil, with all his power to wreck and destroy, deceiving him that has taken it until he finds at last he has neither gold nor silver, but only base metal hanging as a millstone to his neck.

At dawn we got ashore on Battle Point.  We waited there, Louise and I, while D’ri went away to bring horses.  The sun rose clear and warm; it was like a summer morning, but stiller, for the woods had lost their songful tenantry.  We took the forest road, walking slowly.  Some bugler near us had begun to play the song of Yankee-land.  Its phrases travelled like waves in the sea, some high-crested, moving with a mighty rush, filling the valleys, mounting the hills, tossing their spray aloft, flooding all the shores of silence.  Far and near, the trees were singing in praise of my native land.

“Ramon,” said Louise, looking up at me, a sweet and queenly dignity in her face, “I have come to love this country.”

“And you could not have done so much for me unless you had loved—­”

She looked up at me quickly, and put her finger to her lips.  My tongue faltered, obeying the command.  How sweet and beautiful she was then, her splendid form erect, the light of her eyes softened by long lashes!  She looked down thoughtfully as she gave the bottom of her gown a shake.

“Once upon a time,” said she, slowly, as our eyes met again, “there was a little country that had a cruel king.  And he commanded that none of all his people should speak until—­until—­”

She hesitated, stirring the dead leaves with her dainty foot.

“Until a great mountain had been removed and buried in the sea,” she added in a low tone.

“Ah, that was hard.”

“Especially for the ladies,” she went on, sighing.  “Dieu! they could only sit and hold their tongues and weep and feel very foolish.  And the longer they were silent the more they had to say.”

“And those who broke the law?” I inquired.

“Were condemned to silence for their lives,” she answered.  “Come, we are both in danger; let us go.”