BEPPO (_eagerly_). Is it not so? The wandering river that looks like milk and steals away, a ribbon fading in the mist. The woods, the farms, the little towers of the châteaux; the distant steeple that points a finger for the country folk to God! And here and there the bright glint of sunlight one fancies striking on the spears of some brave knight’s company, riding and singing through the meadows; yet ’tis only gleaming on the window of some lonely, peaceful manor. MONSEIGNEUR (_gently_). I think thou art a poet, Beppo. BEPPO (_offended_). I hope not. I only tell thee what there is to see. MONSEIGNEUR. I know it well. I saw it last in summer with my mother. BEPPO. Now shalt thou see it in springtime, and with me; with all the orchard blossom, white and gay as brides with their bouquets. Come! MONSEIGNEUR. Thou wilt take me there? BEPPO. Aye! and cure thee of thy sickness. Thou wilt come? MONSEIGNEUR (_yearningly_). If only thou wilt help me. BEPPO. Walk but through the corridor, and I will carry thee down the great staircase and through the street and up the hill upon my back. And once there—under the lilac!—Come! (_As he helps MONSEIGNEUR to struggle to his feet._) Now, then! Give me thine arm. So! Thine round my neck, and mine around thy body—so!—like girls who love each other. (_Laughing._) Only we are men! _En avant! Marche!_ (_So they turn, laughing gaily, towards the hangings that mask the corridor; when suddenly is heard sharply and faintly from the courtyard below the brisk challenge of a sentinel—‘Qui va là?’ The boys pause and listen, while gradually nearer and louder each sentinel in turn rapidly repeats it—‘Qui va là?—Qui va là?’—until close outside, at the end of the corridor, a rough, hoarse voice shouts—‘On ne passe pas!’ Follows the dash of steel, and a short, sharp cry of terror. Then complete silence._) MONSEIGNEUR (_in a frightened whisper_). Beppo! BEPPO. But what is it? An alarm? Some thief? A gipsy? MONSEIGNEUR (_trembling_). Nay, it is Death—for me! BEPPO (_with his arms tightly round him_). Death? MONSEIGNEUR. He hath broken into the palace. Ah, Lorrain! Lorrain!—false soldier! Beppo! I can feel him—drawing nearer, ever nearer! He is there, behind the hanging. It is Death! BEPPO (_whispers_). Art thou sure? Shall I look? MONSEIGNEUR. Aye, look. I dare not. (_And while BEPPO stands there, shaken and undecided_:) Darest thou not?