Kitabı oku: «Autumn Glory; Or, The Toilers of the Field», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XVI.
HER FATHER'S BIDDING

Evening had come, the evening of a February day, which casts its shadow so soon. Through the door of the barn came only a deceptive gleam, like that of a smouldering cinder, blotting out all form. Toussaint Lumineau's arms had sunk on either side of his body; still sitting on the joist, his face uplifted in the dusk, he waited till the man should have crossed the yard. When he had seen the door of the house-place, where Mathurin was watching, open and shut, he lowered his eyes to his daughter.

"Rousille," he said, "are you still of the same mind concerning Jean Nesmy?"

The girl, kneeling on the ground, her profile indistinct in the darkness, slowly raised her head and stooped forward as though better to see him who spoke in so unexpected a manner. But she had nothing to conceal, she was not one of those who are timid and fearful; she only quieted her beating heart, which could have cried aloud with joy, and said, with apparent calm:

"Always, father. I have given him my love, and shall never withdraw it. Now that André is gone, I quite understand that I cannot leave you to go and live in the Bocage. But I shall never marry; I will stay with you and serve you."

"Then you will not forsake me as they have done?"

"No, father, never."

Her father rested his hand upon her shoulder, and the girl felt herself enveloped in a tenderness hitherto unknown. A hymn of thanksgiving passed from soul to soul. Around them the wind and rain were raging.

"Rousille," resumed the farmer, "I have no longer a son to lean upon. André was the last to betray me. François has refused to come back. And yet La Fromentière must continue ours."

A firm, sweet voice answered:

"It must."

"Then, little one," continued her father, "your wedding bells must ring!"

Rousille dared not understand. Still on her knees she drew a little closer so as to touch her father. She longed that daylight would come back to reveal the expression of the eyes fixed upon her. But the darkness was impenetrable.

"I had always hoped," continued the farmer, "that there would be one of my name to carry on the farm after me. God has refused me my desire. As for you, Rousille, I should have liked to have given you to a Maraîchin like ourselves; one in like position, and from our part. Perhaps it was pride. Things have not turned out according to my wishes. Do you think that Jean Nesmy will consent to come back to La Fromentière?"

"I am certain of it! I can answer for him. He will come back!"

"And his mother will not seek to offer us any affront?"

"No, no. She loves her son too well for that; she knows everything. But Mathurin!" and she stretched out her arm towards the house lying hidden in the darkness. "Mathurin would not have it. He hates us! He would make life so hard for us that we could not stay here."

"But I am still here, dear child, and I mean to gather the three of you about me."

Had Rousille heard aright? Had her father really in so many words given his consent to her marriage? Yes, for he was now standing upright, and in rising he had raised his daughter, and was holding her in close embrace, his tears falling so fast that he could not speak. But contact with her youthful happiness seemed to have lent him fresh courage.

"Do not fear Mathurin," he said, "I will reason with him, and he must obey. It was I who dismissed Jean Nesmy; it is now my will that he comes back to be my son and helper, and the master here when I am gone."

The girl listened in the darkness.

"It is my wish that he should come back as quickly as possible, for a place does not prosper in hired hands however good they may be. I have thought it all out for you, Rousille. You will go from here where we now are, straight to the Michelonnes."

"Yes, father."

"That will give me the time to speak to your brother. You will therefore go to them and say: 'My father cannot leave La Fromentière and Mathurin, who has not been well these last few days. He asks you to go for him to the Bocage, and to beg the mother of Jean Nesmy to let her son come back to be my husband. The sooner you start the better for us.'"

Now Rousille's tears were falling fast. Toussaint Lumineau continued:

"Go, my Rousille. Greet the Michelonnes from me … tell them it is to save La Fromentière."

A whisper answered:

"Yes," and a pair of young arms were thrown round the old farmer's neck, and his face drawn down for a long, loving kiss. Then, going a little away from him, across the darkness through which they could not see each other, Rousille said: "I am happy, father. I will go at once to the Michelonnes … but, oh! how much better it would have been if we could have had all our people at my wedding!"

And she ran out into the night. Her father stood for a moment, proud and happy. She had said "our people," this little Rousille; she spoke like her ancestresses who had ruled in La Fromentière. She was a true descendant of the great-grandmothers she had never known, thorough housewives, who from the very day they were brought home as wives, staid and happy, seemed to bring with them as reading in an ever open book the sense of family cares and joys.

Rousille ran along the road, unheeding the stoniness of the way. Rain fell heavily, but she did not feel it. Sometimes she pressed her hand to her heart, to calm its beating. She thought, "I am happy," and with that she wept.

The windows of all the houses in Sallertaine were lighted when she reached the long street. The timid sisters Michelonne had already shut their shutters, and drawn their bolts.

"Aunts Michelonne!" she cried, knocking with her hand on the door, "please let me in quickly."

It was the work of a moment for Véronique to draw the bolt, open the door, and shut it behind the new-comer.

"How wet you are, Rousille!" she exclaimed, "and without cloak or kerchief in such weather! It has struck seven. What brings you out at such an hour?"

At the far end of the room, on a chest beside the bed nearest to the fireplace, Adelaide had stood the solitary tallow candle, its long smoky wick burnt to a thick glowing knob. By its dim light she was beginning to undress, and had already taken off her apron. A corner of the sheet turned back upon the coverlet showed a patch of whiteness; the rest of the shop was in gloom – chairs, spinning wheels, the table, the other bedstead, and the clock beside it calmly ticking.

"Do not let me disturb you, Aunt Adelaide," said the girl going towards her; "I have news."

The eldest of the sisters taking the candlestick, held it up to Rousille's face, and seeing traces of tears upon it, said:

"Sad news, again, dear child?"

"No, aunts, glad news."

"Then let us sit down, and tell it quickly."

The old sisters sat on the oak chest and made Rousille take a chair facing them, close up that they might see her happy face, and each taking a hand in hers prepared to listen. The three faces were close together; the candle gave just light enough to reveal lip or eyes irradiated with a smile.

"My news is," said Rousille, "that my father, having no longer a son to help him, wishes Jean Nesmy to come back."

"What, Rousille, your sweetheart?"

"Aunt Michelonne, it is to save La Fromentière."

"Then you are going to be married, pet; you are going to be married?" exclaimed Aunt Adelaide enthusiastically, half rising; while her sister, on the contrary, bent lower to hide her emotion.

"Yes, father has said so. If you will help me."

"If! You know I will; you are my daughter. You have only to ask for what you want – but tell me, is it money?"

"No, aunt."

"A trousseau that we will both set about making?"

"Something far more difficult," said Rousille. "To make a journey – a long one."

"I, a journey?"

"You, or Aunt Véronique. As far as the Bocage. Father cannot leave home; you are to go in his stead to see Jean Nesmy's mother, and persuade her to let her son come away. Will you do it?"

Véronique sat upright. "You go to the Bocage, Adelaide, you are more active than I am."

"Is that any reason? So great a pleasure; to do Rousille so great a service, why should you not have the privilege?"

"Sister, you are the elder; you take the place of the mother."

"You are right," said Adelaide simply.

She was silent for a short time; in the agitation of the news and her decision, the pretty pink cheeks had paled. Then she said:

"You see, it is forty years since I have been beyond the town of Chalons. I never thought to make any journey again. Where is Jean Nesmy's country?"

With a pretty smile on her face at the recollections it evoked, Rousille touched Aunt Michelonne's black dress three times with the tip of her finger.

"Here," she said, "is the farm of Nouzillac, where he is employed; there, a parish called La Flocellière; and there Les Châtelliers, where is his house, called La Château."

"I do not know any of those names, pet."

"There are hills in all directions, some small, some large, and a great many trees. When the wind blows from Saint Michel it rains without ceasing. Pouzanges is not far."

"I have heard speak of Saint Michel and Pouzanges when I was quite a child by Boquins, who used in those days to come to our part to seek for fuel. And when must I go?"

Lowering her soft eyes, Rousille answered:

"Father is hard pressed. He said the sooner the better."

"Holy Virgin! But I cannot start to-night. Still, look at the clock, Véronique, your eyes are better than mine."

The younger sister rising, trotted to the foot of the tall clock which stood between the beds, and with difficulty read the time from the copper-clock face.

"Too late, sister. The last tramway for Chalons has just passed."

"Then," said Adelaide, "I will start to-morrow morning. I have good legs to carry me to Quatre-Moulins, and a good tongue to ask my way later from the shopkeepers at Chalons. I will go. All the way I shall be thinking of you, Rousille, and when I see La Mère Nesmy – you will say I am conceited – but I shall not be a bit embarrassed, I will tell her of you, and I shall have plenty to tell. Why are you getting up, little one?"

"To go home, Aunt Michelonne."

The two old sisters laughing, cried simultaneously:

"No, that you are not indeed! You have told us nothing. What did your father say when he gave you permission? And what about François? And what does Mathurin think of it all? Stay, dearie, and tell us all about everything; and what is to be the message for Jean Nesmy?"

As when night falls over the fields partridges cluster together in a furrow, feather to feather, so the three women again grouped themselves, in close vicinity, in the corner of the shop. Words, looks, smiles, gestures, sometimes tears, all that bespeaks deep feeling, found utterance, and was re-echoed by the two auditors. A joyous murmur floated through the dwelling of the two old maids. Adelaide was slightly fevered; Véronique, without wishing to confess it, was already nervous at the idea of being left alone. Time went on. The neighbours, as they extinguished their lamps said: "Mademoiselles Michelonne are sitting up late to-night! Work seems plentiful in their trade!"

The town was sunk in darkness and silence under an icy rain when Rousille left her aunt's doorstep. On both sides the same words served for their parting. Adelaide said it first; Rousille repeated it. In one case it was a promise; in the other an expression of thanks.

"To-morrow morning!"

"To-morrow morning!"

CHAPTER XVII.
A FEBRUARY NIGHT

When Rousille had crossed the courtyard and taken the road to Sallertaine, the farmer, having taken the pot off the fire, left the barn. He found the man sitting in the chimney-corner, pushing together the half-dead twigs that had fallen from the fire-dogs with the points of his sabots. At the far end of the room, Mathurin was moving restlessly about on his crutches, with crimsoned face, utterly unable to keep his nerves under control. He did not speak to his father, did not appear to have heard him enter. But after a minute, as the farmer, bending down, was speaking in a low voice to the man, he exclaimed violently:

"And Rousille, what had you to say to her that kept you so long in the barn?"

Before replying, Toussaint Lumineau followed with his eyes the movements of the unhappy young man, a prey to a species of madness produced by rage and pain, such as was too well known at La Fromentière – since André's departure the paroxysms had become more frequent – and the father was moved to pity. Ignoring the insolence of the question, he said simply:

"Your sister will come back later, Mathurin. Where she has gone I have sent her."

"I am not to know where she is, then?" cried the cripple still more violently. "Everything is hidden from me here, and she is told all!"

At a sign from the farmer the man took out a couple of potatoes with his knife from the saucepan, slipped them into his coat pocket, cut a slice of bread from the loaf on the table, and carrying off his supper, went out into the yard.

The father and son were alone. Toussaint Lumineau, standing erect in the firelight, said:

"On the contrary, you are going to know all, Mathurin. Your brother François refuses to come home to us."

"I thought so."

The cripple had drawn back into a dark corner between the two beds, out of the range of the lamplight; there, as though on the watch for the words spoken, he listened; his trembling hands resting on the crutches shook the bed-curtains.

"La Fromentière cannot go on as it is now," resumed the farmer. "I have bidden Rousille take a message to the Michelonnes. One or the other of the sisters, whether it be Adelaide or Véronique matters not, is to go to the Bocage to bring back Jean Nesmy."

"Ah! you are marrying Rousille?"

"Yes, my friend."

"To a dismissed farm-servant!"

"I am taking him back."

"A Boquin! A man not of these parts!"

"A good worker, Mathurin, and one who always loved our soil."

"And he is to live at La Fromentière?"

"Of course. I need help. I need a son to stand by me."

Mathurin's tawny head was thrust out from darkness.

"And me," he cried, "what are you going to do with me?"

In his look was a concentrated reproach, all pent-up suffering and wrath of years.

"So I, the eldest, the rightful heir, am only to bear my suffering and submit to the will of others?"

"My son," replied his father gently, "you will continue to live with us as now; you will do what you can, and no one will expect more. No work will be undertaken here without your having first been consulted, that I promise you. The farmstead will be your home after my death as now."

"No. I will not be ordered about by a man who does not bear my name. A Lumineau, and a Lumineau only, must be master here!"

"It is the sorrow of my life, Mathurin, that this cannot be."

"I could have borne with François, even with André," continued the cripple, with equal vehemence, "but Rousille and her Boquin shall never be the masters here. It is my home, and, I tell you, it is my turn!"

"But, my poor boy, you cannot take the management."

The serge curtains shook, and the unhappy man, suffocating with rage, made a few uncertain steps forward.

"I cannot tell what is good ploughing?" he gasped.

"Yes."

"I cannot buy a pair of oxen?"

"Yes."

"I cannot have myself drawn about in a cart, or punt a boat? Answer, if you please."

"Yes, my son."

"Then what further do I need for the management of a farm? Labourers I can hire. A wife?"

His father dared not say Yes.

"I will bring one!" Mathurin had reached the corner of the table and was now leaning upon it, the upper part of his body swaying and struggling to maintain its equilibrium. "One who has more heart than all of you put together! She knows that I shall get well. She has almost given me her promise to marry me as I am … when I shall have persuaded her."

"Do not trust to what the girls tell you, my poor lad. It is only fathers and mothers who love and cherish those afflicted as you are… You are ill this evening. See, your limbs are failing you. Come to bed, I will help you."

The cripple did not try to answer. His eyes closed, his head sank on to his shoulder; the crutches slipped from under the arms that stretched out as those of a drowning man seeking help. He would have fallen to the ground had not the farmer rushed forward to support him.

The giddiness did not last long. It was a sharp but short attack. Hardly had his father got him into a recumbent position on the chest at the foot his bed than Mathurin opened his eyes. He looked at his father, raised himself unaided, and putting hand to the back of his neck, said:

"You see, it is nothing. The pain you caused did it… I am not ill."

All trace of anger had disappeared, but the misery in his face was the same, mingled with that kind of horror men experience when they have been at the very verge of death.

"Would you like me to help you?" asked his father.

With a shrug of the shoulders the cripple began to undress himself, and taking off his coat, folded it, and laid it on the chest.

"No. I will get to bed by myself. I want to be left in peace." His voice trembled as much as his hands. "You had better go to meet Rousille. She will have her news to tell you – and, moreover, it is pitch dark, the roads are not too safe – "

Toussaint Lumineau, who knew the danger of opposing his son in such an attack, made no demur.

"I will go as far as the road, Mathurin, and will tell the man to be at hand in the bakery in case you need him."

He did not go even as far as the road. He was too uneasy. He went some hundred yards along the wall of La Fromentière in the rain, turned back, and then not wishing to go in too soon as to allow Mathurin time to calm down, he went into the stables to look to the animals, and see that none had broken loose.

But, all unsuspected, Mathurin had slipped out after him. The farmer had not gone ten paces beyond the gate ere the cripple had come out into the courtyard, cautiously shut the outer door, and was making his way towards the threshing-floor in order to reach the meadow by the short cut.

His marvellous energy, and the diseased state of nervous excitability he was in, sustained him. A mad fancy, born of all his misery and all his dreams, forced him out on that cruel night to his doom. He would seek his lost love; would appeal by all the slights, all the suffering, all the affronts he had endured, to her who had been and still was the arbitress of his life; would say to her: "All forsake me; I have only you. Tell me that you love me, and they will scorn me no more. Save me, Félicité Gauvrit!"

Despite the dark night, the slippery ground, the two fences he had to climb, he went quickly along the track which bordered the park. Like a naughty child fearing pursuit, he turned his head every now and then to listen. Many a sound came to him, but it was only the whistling of the wind among the elms; the rain crashing down upon the slates; the roll of a distant train, probably on the way to Chalons. Mathurin descended the sloping meadow; the darkness was so dense that he had to turn back twice before he found the landing-stage. Feeling for a punt with his crutch he threw himself into the first one, and with a stroke of the pole pushed it out, not into the canal which led direct to Le Perrier and La Seulière, but to the left into a dyke rarely made use of by the occupants of the farm.

The bottom of the boat was full of water; at each movement it washed over the limbs of the cowering man, but he heeded it not. What mattered the wet boat, the icy rain that was falling, the pitch darkness, the weeds that checked his progress many a time, the length of the way, the fatigue. He must reach her, did he strain his last nerve and die in the effort.

The darkness was so great that Mathurin could scarce see the bow of his boat. Since sundown the wind had been driving the fog into the Marais; in its length and breadth it was full of it, covering whole spaces with its swaying mass; it lay over the inundated meadows, the embankments, and islets, shrouding them all in its malarial folds. It dripped in poisonous drops down poplars and willows, from the thatched roofs of hovels on the edge of the great sea shore where men, condemned to live in them, drank in fever without the power of struggling against it.

On such a deadly night was it that Mathurin, already a prey to the malady hanging over him, the blood surging to his head, found his strength ebbing away. In vain he threw himself from side to side of the punt, unable to distinguish which way to go. Sometimes his breath failed, he grew unconscious, and the puntsman would sit leaning forward motionless in the boat; then the cold would restore him, and with a shake he would continue his course.

As he went on further into the wildest part of the Marais, the shades of night grew peopled with forms. Birds, more and more numerous, rose as he brushed past the quivering willows. It was the time of their flight. Plovers, wild duck, bernacles, snipe, flew up, uttering their shrill or plaintive cry, soaring in invisible flocks, now high up in the icy fog, now close down to the sides of the boat. At each flight the cripple shuddered: "Why do you cry thus at me, ye birds of ill-omen?" he thought. "Leave me in peace, I am going to Félicité – she will consent – we shall make preparation again for our wedding – we will live at La Fromentière."

But his strength was exhausted. Little by little the torpor increased. His efforts relaxed; his sight failed. He continued touching the banks with the punt pole but fitfully, and not knowing where it struck. All suddenly the boat, which drifted across an embankment into the middle of a submerged meadow, stopped. Water was all around. Mathurin's hands relaxed their hold of the pole, his eyes opened wide with terror; he felt Death creeping up from limbs to brain. Raising himself, he cried out into the night with a loud voice: "Félicité! Father!" Then his body swayed backwards and forwards, his hand made the sign of the cross, and with mouth still open he sank lifeless to the bottom of the boat.

Through the labyrinth of dykes another punt was being rapidly propelled; at its bow a lantern was slung, just clearing the water, its tiny flame swaying with a rapid movement, and shaken by the wind. The farmer had discovered Mathurin's flight, and was seeking him.

Around him, too, coveys of birds arose. White wings fluttered in the light of the lantern.

"Ye birds," murmured the farmer, "tell me where to find him!"

Did the thousands of voices make answer?

At each crossway of the canals the father stood in the stern of his boat, and turning successively to the four winds of heaven, he called out with all his strength the name of his son. Twice men returning to their island homes from wild duck shooting, or belated farmers, had opened their windows to cry in the darkness:

"What do you want?"

"My son."

The voices had given no reply. The third time Toussaint Lumineau thought he distinguished a feeble cry, very distant, coming through the icy fog, and leaving the canal which runs straight to Perrier, he turned off to the left. From time to time he called again, but hearing no further sound, and fearing to have taken a wrong direction, he unfastened the lantern, and drew up to the side to see if there were traces of a punt pole. Some hundred yards further on he detected by newly-made marks in the mud that the bank had been grazed; a punt had certainly passed that way. Was it Mathurin's? He followed it. The punt had made the circuit of a meadow, but on which side had it gone out? In vain the farmer, forcing his way through the rushes, tried the different canals that cut it at right angles, each time he came back baffled; all traces had disappeared. He was about to turn back when, by the light of his lantern, he caught sight of a piece of floating wood. He stooped to catch it; a presentiment of the truth flashed across him; it was one of the Fromentière punt poles, drifting, carried by the wind towards the spot where the banks under water had converted meadow and dyke into one great lake.

The farmer thought his son's boat had upset.

"Hold on, Mathurin!" he cried. "I am coming. Hold on!" and with a stroke of the pole he pushed on into the channel. "Where are you, Mathurin?"

In the chopping waves of the open water he had made some thirty yards, when he was suddenly thrown forward. Stooping over the side, he felt about, and caught hold of another boat, which he drew alongside his own. Then turning the lantern upon it, he saw at the bottom of the punt his son, lying motionless. Toussaint Lumineau threw himself on his knees, nearly sending the boat under water; he felt his son's temples, there was no pulsation; his hands, they were icy cold; he put his mouth to the dead man's ear, and twice called him by name.

"Answer me, my son," he implored. "Answer! Move but a finger to show me you are still living."

But his son's fingers did not move; the lips clothed by the tawny beard remained motionless, open as when the last cry proceeded from them.

"My God!" groaned Lumineau, still kneeling. "Grant that he may not be called away before his Easter Communion. Grant that he be not dead!" And taking off his coat he covered his son in it, like a bed, and leaving his own punt he got into the one where Mathurin lay, and pushed off. A shade of hope sustained him, giving renewed vigour to his old arms. He must find help. Standing upright, endeavouring to find out where he was in the pitch darkness, the father had punted on some distance before he detected the light of a farmhouse. Then, to the right, a ray of light pierced through the fog. The punt glided on more rapidly through the dyke, it neared the building, and Toussaint could make out that it was a farm from the shape of the doors and the lighted windows. Alas! it was La Seulière, and a dance was going in. The noise of laughter, songs, the muffled notes of an accordeon plainly audible within, died away in the wind without.

The farmer went on past the brown hillock, but even while he punted with all speed he watched to see if the great dark shade cast by Mathurin had not stirred; then seeing it motionless, thought to himself: "My son is dead!"

Some five hundred yards away on the other side of the canal, he knew now that there was another house, and he made all haste to reach it. For this time it was Terre-Aymont, the farm of Massonneau le Glorieux, his friend. And soon the farmer, throwing his boat-chain round a willow, had sprung to land, and going to the farmhouse door, was crying: "Glorieux! Glorieux! Help!"

Soon lights were moving along the muddy slopes between the farm and the willow to which the boat had been attached, and men and women were hurrying to and fro with tears, laments, and low-voiced prayers. The whole sleeping household had been quickly roused, and were assembled on the bank. Massonneau would have had Mathurin carried into the house-place of La Terre-Aymont and have sent to fetch the doctor of Chalons, but Toussaint Lumineau, having once more examined and felt over his son's body, said:

"No, Glorieux. His sufferings are at an end. I will take him back to La Fromentière."

Then the farmer of La Terre-Aymont turned to two young lads standing in the background, who with arms round each other's necks, their brown heads touching, seemed to be looking on death for the first time.

"My lads," he said, "go and fetch our large punt."

Disappearing in the fog, they ran to fetch the boat which was kept in a meadow close by La Seulière, and as they passed they told the merrymakers what had happened.

It was nearly ten at night when the body of Mathurin Lumineau was reverently placed by friendly hands in the great punt used for carrying forage, and which had so often been seen returning from the meadows laden with hay, one of the Terre-Aymont children perched on the top, singing.

The body was laid in the middle of the boat, covered with a white sheet by the hands of Mère Massonneau; on it she placed a copper crucifix.

Toussaint Lumineau took his place in the stern at his son's head. Standing in the bow with their punt poles were the two sons of Glorieux de la Terre-Aymont, two lanterns at their feet to light them on their way.

The boat left the bank amid the laments of those present, and proceeded slowly down the Grand Canal, the wind driving the mists of the Marais towards it as it advanced.

When at a short distance from La Seulière, a voice from land exclaimed:

"There it is! I hear the punt poles; I see the lights!"

The doors of both rooms were thrown open; the lamplight shone out, illuminating the hillock on which the house stood; the stunted trees on the edge of the dyke looked silvery out of the darkness. Now all those present at the dance, young men and maidens, came forth in long procession down to the bank to greet the mournful convoy. In their gala dresses they knelt on the muddy bank, their coifs and aprons blown about in the wind. Silently they watched the approach of the white shroud covering the remains of the cripple, their senior by so few years, and the poor old father sitting bent double in the stern, his head almost touching his knees, motionless as the dead son he was guarding.

Behind the others knelt a tall girl supported by two of her companions kneeling on either side of her, the blue kerchief and gold chain she wore conspicuous in the light that streamed from the house. All were silent. All followed with their eyes the boat as it slowly glided away again into the darkness. The sound of the punt poles, as they dipped the water, gradually died away; the ripples left on the smooth surface of the water subsided. The white shroud had passed away into the ever-deepening fog. There remained only a glimmer of light, the faint reflection of the lanterns passing across the meadows; soon nothing could be distinguished from out the enveloping darkness into which the punt had disappeared.

"Poor eldest Lumineau! the handsomest of us all!"

In the solitude of the Marais, whither the pity of his fellow creatures could not accompany him, the old father wept as he looked on the burden at his feet; he wept, too, when lifting up his head his eyes lighted on the stalwart lads plying the punt poles, who, faithful to their home and soil, were keeping on the straight course.