Somehow I knew that he was thinking of Martinod and the slap he had given him. As soon as we were beyond reach of the dogs I was vexed with my father for having noticed my movement of fear. We began to climb a hill by a good mule path. By degrees as we went up into a purer air, he recovered his fine spirits. It was a lovely day in late May or early June, warm but with a good breeze. Spring comes slowly in my country, and vegetation starts suddenly into life. It might have begun the day before, or the day before that, so bright were the leaves, so rich the grass, so gay the flowers. We crossed a grove of oaks, beeches and birches; the ruddy brown oaks formed the pillars of an immense vaulted temple, hiding the sky. “Ah,” said father, pausing for breath, and taking off his hat, the better to feel the coolness that fell from the trees, “how good it is to be here, and what a beautiful day!” I wondered at his raptures over so common a thing, which I had so often enjoyed, not considering how seldom he had an opportunity for such enjoyment. But he went on: “It is terrible to be so busy! Not to have time to enjoy the sunshine and the wide spaces, nor to talk with one’s sons as often as one would wish. Do you remember the old times, Francis, when I used to tell you about the wars in the Iliad and the return to Ithaca?” I had not forgotten, but those epic stories seemed to me to belong to a far-away and outgrown childhood. They dated from before that convalescence which had changed my heart. They dated from before my walks with grandfather, from before liberty and Nazzarena, from before love. So I cared for them no longer. Hector had fought to guard his home, and Ulysses had braved tempests to return to his, the smoke from which he had seen afar, from the sea; but I was looking forward to my individual future, when I should not be dependent upon any person or anything. We soon made our way through the cover of the trees and reached the top of the hill. It was crowned by the ruins of an ancient fortress, which, to judge by the broken and crumbling fragments of walls, and by the height of the still upright and loop-holed towers, must have been of considerable extent. Brambles and ivy were growing among the ruins, which seemed to be standing out against the last assault, that of vegetable growth, greedy to overwhelm them. “I do not care much for ruins,” observed my father. “They are poetic, but they weaken the desire for action. They remind us of the end of things, and the object of life is to build up. Still, they have their part to play, evoking the memory of a past of conflict and glory. This was once the fortified château of Malpas. It commanded the road to the frontier. What attacks and sieges it has endured! In 1814, when France was assailed by three armies, though it was then entirely dismantled, cannon were set upon the walls to resist the Austrians.”