But Roland, who recognized himself again in his young brother, instead of blaming him, smiled at his boyish ardor. “I’d take you willingly,” said he, “only to go hunting one must at least know how to handle a gun.” “Oh, Master Roland,” cried Edouard, “just come into the garden a bit. Put up your hat at a hundred yards, and I’ll show you how to handle a gun.” “Naughty child,” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, trembling, “where did you learn?” “Why, from the gunsmith at Montagnac, who keeps papa’s and Roland’s guns. You ask me sometimes what I do with my money, don’t you? Well, I buy powder and balls with it, and I am learning to kill Austrians and Arabs like my brother Roland.” Madame de Montrevel raised her hands to heaven. “What can you expect, mother?” asked Roland. “Blood will tell. No Montrevel could be afraid of powder. You shall come with us to-morrow, Edouard.” The boy sprang upon his brother’s neck. “And I,” said Sir John, “will equip you to-day like a regular huntsman, just as they used to arm the knights of old. I have a charming little rifle that I will give you. It will keep you contented until your sabre and pistols come.” “Well,” asked Roland, “are you satisfied now, Edouard?” “Yes; but when will he give it to me? If you have to write to England for it, I warn you I shan’t believe in it.” “No, my little friend, we have only to go up to my room and open my gun-case. That’s soon done.” “Then, let’s go at once.” “Come on,” said Sir John; and he went out, followed by Edouard. A moment later, Amélie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left the room. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her departure, so interested were they in a serious discussion. Madame de Montrevel tried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother with him on the morrow’s hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard was to become a soldier like his father and brother, the sooner he learned to handle a gun and become familiar with powder and ball the better. The discussion was not yet ended when Edouard returned with his gun slung over his shoulder. “Look, brother,” said he, turning to Roland; “just see what a fine present Sir John has given me.” And he looked gratefully at Sir John, who stood in the doorway vainly seeking Amélie with his eyes. It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with that plainness of ornament and simplicity of form peculiar to English weapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols, of which Roland had had opportunity to test the accuracy, the rifle was made by the celebrated Manton, and carried a twenty-four calibre bullet. That it had been originally intended for a woman was easily seen by the shortness of the stock and the velvet pad on the trigger. This original purpose of the weapon made it peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve.