"Well, it is not very easy to put it in prose," she hesitated. "Things sound so differently in music and poetry; but it means," she said in French, bravely, "why, it is a sort of prayer that some one you love very much should be kept safe night and day. That's about all. There is a little sadness in it, as though," and her cheeks glowed, "as if there was a sort of separation. It means..." "Ah!" breathed the officer deeply, "I understand. Thank you." And just then Madame d'Esclignac rolled up between them and with an unmistakable satisfaction presented to her niece the gentleman she had secured. "My dear Julia, my godson, the Duc de Tremont." And Sabron bowed to both the ladies, to the duke, and went away. This was the picture he might add to his collection: the older woman in her vivid dress, Julia in her simpler gown, and the titled Frenchman bowing over her hand. When he went out to the front terrace Brunet was there with his horse, and Pitchouné was there as well, stiffly waiting at attention. "Brunet," said the officer to his man, "will you take Pitchouné around to the servants' quarters and give him to Miss Redmond's maid? I am going to leave him here." "Good, _mon Capitaine_," said the _ordonnance_, and whistled to the dog. Pitchouné sprang toward his master with a short sharp bark. What he understood would be hard to say, but all that he wanted to do was to remain with Sabron. Sabron bent down and stroked him. "Go, my friend, with Brunet. Go, _mon vieux_, go," he commanded sternly, and the little dog, trained to obedience as a soldier's dog should be, trotted reluctantly at the heels of the _ordonnance_, and the soldier threw his leg over the saddle and rode away. He rode regardless of anything but the fact that he was going. CHAPTER VIII HOMESICK Pitchouné was a soldier's dog, born in a stable, of a mother who had been dear to the canteen. Michette had been _une vrai_ vivandière, a real daughter of the regiment. Pitchouné was a worthy son. He adored the drums and trumpets. He adored the fife. He adored the drills which he was accustomed to watch from a respectable distance. He liked Brunet, and the word had not yet been discovered which would _express_ how he felt toward Monsieur le Capitaine, his master. His muscular little form expressed it in every fiber. His brown eyes looked it until their pathos might have melted a heart of iron.