Looking down a long valley, we could see towers of evergreen, terraces of red and brown, golden steeple-tops, gilded domes minareted with lavender and purple and draped with scarlet banners.  It seemed as if the trees were shriving after all the green riot of summer, and making ready for sackcloth and ashes.  Some stood trembling, and as if drenched in their own blood.  Now and then a head was bare and bent, and naked arms were lifted high, as if to implore mercy.

“Fine air,” said I, breathing deep as we rode on slowly.

“‘T is sart’n,” said D’ri.  “Mother used t’ say ’at the frost wus only the breath o’ angels, an’ when it melted it gin us a leetle o’ the air o’ heaven.”

Of earth or heaven, it quickened us all with a new life.  The horses fretted for their heads, and went off at a gallop, needing no cluck or spur.  We pulled up at the chateau well before the luncheon hour.  D’ri took the horses, and I was shown to the library, where the count came shortly, to give me hearty welcome.

“And what of the captives?” I inquired, our greeting over.

“Alas! it is terrible; they have not returned,” said he, “and I am in great trouble, for I have not written to France of their peril.  Dieu!  I hoped they would be soon released.  They are well and now we have good news.  Eh bien, we hope to see them soon.  But of that Therese shall tell you.  And you have had a terrible time on Lake Erie?”

He had read of the battle, but wanted my view of it.  I told the story of the Lawrence and Perry; of what D’ri and I had hoped to do, and of what had been done to us.  My account of D’ri—­his droll comment, his valor, his misfortune—­touched and tickled the count.  He laughed, he clapped his hands, he shed tears of enthusiasm; then he rang a bell,

“The M’sieur D’ri—­bring him here,” said he to a servant.

D’ri came soon with a worried look, his trousers caught on his boot-tops, an old felt hat in his hand.  Somehow he and his hat were as king and coronal in their mutual fitness; if he lost one, he swapped for another of about the same shade and shape.  His brows were lifted, his eyes wide with watchful timidity.  The count had opened a leather case and taken out of it a shiny disk of silver.  He stepped to D’ri, and fastened it upon his waistcoat.

“‘Pour la valeur eprouvee—­de l’Empereur,’” said he, reading the inscription as he clapped him on the shoulder.  “It was given to a soldier for bravery at Austerlitz by the great Napoleon,” said he.  “And, God rest him! the soldier he died of his wounds.  And to me he have left the medal in trust for some man, the most brave, intrepid, honorable.  M’sieur D’ri, I have the pleasure to put it where it belong.”

D’ri shifted his weight, looking down at the medal and blushing like a boy.

“Much obleeged,” he said presently.  “Dunno but mebbe I better put it ’n my wallet.  ’Fraid I ‘ll lose it off o’ there.”