Delightful as it had been in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed to Jack more delightful still in the dusk of this beautiful September evening. The moon was just rising, throwing pale shafts of light through the trees, deepening the shadows. An owl hooted from the top of the Folly; as Jack picked his way through the brake he heard the whisk of scared rabbits. By the time he reached a part of the ruined wall whence he could look over a stretch of open country he had almost forgotten his errand. He sat on the wall, dangling his legs. There, across the fields to his right, the moonbeams shone on the weathercock on Gudgeon’s roof. Luscombe was out of sight in the dip of the cliffs, but he fancied he could hear the grinding of the surf on the shingle. Suddenly he started. The light southeast breeze blowing toward him brought the sound of low voices a little way ahead. Was it Monsieur de Fronsac speaking? Jack thought he recognized the low smooth tones. Should he go on? That would be to risk overhearing the speakers. He hesitated; he heard another voice, deeper, rougher; then both voices together, as if in altercation. "This won’t do!" thought Jack. "I’d better clear out." So he sprang lightly down from his perch and began to retrace his steps, walking slowly as he had come, and looking back every now and again to see whether the tutor was following. At last, just as he reached the first of half a dozen stiles between himself and the Grange, he saw Monsieur de Fronsac’s figure come into the moonlight from the shade of the trees half a mile behind. He was alone. Jack sat on the stile and waited. The Frenchman walked with downcast eyes and for a few moments did not perceive him. Catching sight of him at length, he seemed to be startled, for he halted and made a strange upward movement of the right hand. But his pause was only momentary. He came on again, and as soon as he was near enough to see clearly who was sitting on the stile, he showed his teeth in a brilliant smile, and called softly: "Hi! Monsieur Jack, I see you." "Well, I’m pretty solid, Monsieur," returned Jack with a smile. "The place looks lonely enough for a ghost, don’t it? I’d come to meet you; got a question to ask." "Ah! truly de place is romanesque. It demand poesy. Often do I come here, in evenings ven de moon is bright, to compose poesy. It please me, it console me in my miseries. I come dis minute from composing a poem about de moon. Vill I declaim it? Is Monsieur interested?" "Oh, fire away!" said Jack. He thought he might as well humor this singular Frenchman. "Stop a bit, is it in French or English? If it’s in French it’ll be clean over my head." "No, it is in English. I compose alvays in English since dat Monstair have maltreat me. I recite it: listen: "’_De moon, she shine in de sky_ _O lovely! O sharming!_ _Ven I look, vat can I? I sigh._ _Vat fine zing for farming!_’