More valet perhaps than secretary, and more errand-boy than either, the former chorister of the Blue Jesus had followed the fallen statesman into exile at a moment when the Authorities of Pisuerga were making minute enquiries for sundry missing articles,[8] from the _Trésor_ of the Cathedral, and since the strain of constant choir-practice is apt to be injurious for a youngster suffering from a delicate chest, the adolescent had been willing enough to accept, for a time, at least, a situation in the country. “O, sir,” he exclaimed, and almost in his excitement forgetting altogether the insidious, lisping tones he preferred as a rule to employ: “O, sir, here comes that old piece of rubbish again with a fresh pack of tracts!” “Collect yourself, Peter, pray do: what, lose our heads for a visit?” the Count said getting up and going to a glass. “I’ve noticed, sir, it’s impossible to live on an island long without feeling its effects; you _can’t_ escape being insular!” “Or insolent.” “Insular, sir!” “No matter much, but if it’s the Countess Yvorra, you might shew her round the garden this time, perhaps, for a change,” the Count replied, adjusting a demure-looking fly, of indeterminate sex, to his line. And brooding on life and baits, and what _A_ will come for while _B_ won’t, the Count’s thoughts grew almost humorous as the afternoon wore on. Evening was approaching, when weary of the airs of a common carp, he drew in, at length, his tackle. Like a shawl of turquoise silk the lake seemed to vie, in serenity and radiance, with the bluest day in June, and it was no surprise, on descending presently for a restricted ramble--(the island, in all, amounted to scarcely one acre)--to descry the invaluable Peter enjoying a pleasant swim. When not boating or reading or feeding his swans, to watch Peter’s fancy-diving off the terrace end, was perhaps the favourite pastime of the veteran _viveur_: to behold the lad trip along the riven breakwater, as naked as a statue, shoot out his arms and spring, the _Flying-head-leap_ or the _Backsadilla_, was a beautiful sight, looking up now and again--but more often _now_--from a volume of old Greek verse; while to hear him warbling in the water with his clear alto voice--of Kyries and Anthems he knew no end--would often stir the old man to the point of tears. Frequently the swans themselves would paddle up to listen, expressing by the charmed or rapturous motions of their necks (recalling to the exile the ecstasies of certain musical, or “artistic” dames at Concert-halls, or the Opera House, long ago) their mute appreciation, their touched delight.... “Old goody Two-shoes never came, sir,” Peter archly lisped, admiring his adventurous shadow upon the breakwater wall. “How is that?” “Becalmed, sir,” Peter answered, culling languidly a small, nodding rose, that was clinging to the wall: “O becalmed is my soul I rejoice in the Lord!”