“Alas!” sighed Don Juan, “those were the early ages; such love as that is not to be found now--it is a dream, a fantasy. Henry will find no Agnes Sorel in these later days.” “Say not so, noble Don,” replied Gabrielle; “I for my part adore the King--I long to know him.” The Spaniard’s eyes flashed, and Bellegarde started visibly. “Love,” continued Gabrielle, flushing with excitement, “love is of all times and of all seasons. True love is immortal. But I allow that it is rare, though not impossible, to excite such a passion.” “If it is a science to be learnt, will you teach me, fair lady?” asked the Spaniard tenderly. At this turn in the conversation Bellegarde again became painfully agitated, and the subject dropped. The Don now addressed his conversation to the sisters of Gabrielle, and at their request took up the lute and sang an improvised song with considerable taste, in a fine manly voice, which gained for him loud applauses all around. The words were these: “Charmante Gabrielle, Percé de mille dards, Quand la gloire m’appelle A la suite de Mars, Cruelle départie. Que ne suis-je sans vie Ou sans amour?” Gabrielle looked, perhaps, a trifle too much pleased at the somewhat free admiration expressed in these verses, and spite of Bellegarde, approached the Don to thank him after he had finished. “Lady, did my song please you?” said he softly, trying to kiss her hand. “If it had any merit you inspired me.” “Yes,” replied she musingly. “You wished just now you were my prisoner. Had you been, I should long ago have freed you if you had sung to me like that, I am sure.” “And why?” asked he. “Because you have something in your voice I should have feared to hear too often,” said she in a low voice, lest Bellegarde should hear her. “Then in that case I would always have remained your voluntary captive, _ma belle_.” How long this conversation might have continued authorities do not state; but Bellegarde, now really displeased, approached the whispering pair, giving an indignant glance at Gabrielle and a look full of reproach at the Don. “Come, come, Don Juan!” said he. “It is time to go. Where are our horses? The day wears on, we shall scarce reach the camp ere sundown.” “_Ventre Saint Gris!_” said the Spaniard, starting, “there is surely no need for such haste.” “Your promise,” muttered Bellegarde in his ear. “Confound you, Bellegarde! You have introduced me into paradise, and now you drag me away just when the breath of heaven is warming me.” Don Juan looked broken-hearted at being obliged to leave, and cast the most loving glances towards Gabrielle and her handsome sisters. “I opine we ought never to have come at all,” said Chicot, winking violently and looking at Gabrielle, who with downcast eyes evidently regretted the necessity of the Don’s departure. “_Mère de Dieu!_” muttered the latter to Bellegarde, “you are too hard thus to bind me to my cursed promise.”