Then the evening breeze flung itself sportingly into the trees, and all the branches sprang before it, and the foliage danced and shouted in a laugh, singing noisily the old secret of the river reeds, singing, "Midas is a king of gold--a king of gold." So the fire died down into an angry red, and all the birds of the grove were songless. Madame walked alone from the rude house, her small face white against dark clouds, and passed into the clearing. The Indian who worked for the widow and daughter approached with a burden of wood. "Wind is coming," he said in his own tongue. "May it blow away heresy and all heretics," muttered the little woman. CHAPTER XIII. ENCHANTMENT. Within the grass-roofed cabin another fire glowed, and beside it Madeleine entertained the guest, her white hands clasped upon her knee, her eyes lustrous as she listened to the tale of adventure which her young companion had to tell. "And now you would reach the south and bring your countrymen hither," she said with the sweet practicability of her sex, after hearing his story of ventures both by land and sea. "You would win territory, perhaps fame. Then what would you do?" "Then? Why, I would return home," answered Geoffrey. "And then?" the girl pursued, the colour rising in her cheeks. "Then I would fight for the king." Madeleine sank back. "Would your fighting-days never be done?" she sighed reproachfully. "Friend, the world gives better things than the sword. Think you," she went on hurriedly, "we are put upon this world to hate one another and be always at strife? Ah no. We are here to live! The soldier's day must pass, his arm grow stiff, and 'tis then he sighs for life--the sword gives only death. How wretched is that soldier's lonely end! It is love in life that ennobles the body, and 'tis death in love that clothes the soul in its flight to God." Her eyes had been fixed upon him. She cast them down suddenly and sat trembling. "My father taught me the use of the sword, and explained to me the action of the gun," Geoffrey faltered. "He taught me nothing else." "Your mother?" Madeleine whispered. "She died when I was a child." "She would have taught you. She would have told you to take the best," murmured the girl. He could see only a rich coil of hair glowing in the firelight. "But I am untaught," she went on. "My father was ever a stranger, my mother has never been a friend. I grew up with Jean-Marie, my brother, who was a follower of your creed. He too believed that life has nothing better than the sword, so went away to fight, and I have had no word of him again. Alone I have taught myself to live, to see that life is glorious, to find joy in drawing each healthy breath. I have studied the birds and animals, and spoken to them, until they have answered me so that I could understand. It is so magnificent, this life!"