David rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his tree.
“I thank you, Monsieur Bril,” he said, slowly. “There was not, then, one nightingale note among all those croaks?”
“I could not have missed it,”’ said Monsieur Bril, with a sigh. “I read every word. Live your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more.”
“I thank you,” said David, again. “And now I will be going back to my sheep.”
“If you would dine with me,” said the man of books, “and overlook the smart of it, I will give you reasons at length.”
“No,” said the poet, “I must be back in the fields cawing at my sheep.”
Back along the road to Vernoy he trudged with his poems under his arm. When he reached his village he turned into the shop of one Zeigler, a Jew out of Armenia, who sold anything that came to his hand.
“Friend,” said David, “wolves from the forest harass my sheep on the hills. I must purchase firearms to protect them. What have you?”
“A bad day, this, for me, friend Mignot,” said Zeigler, spreading his hands, “for I perceive that I must sell you a weapon that will not fetch a tenth of its value. Only last week I bought from a peddler a waggon full of goods that he procured at a sale by a commissionaire of the crown. The sale was of the chateau and belongings of a great lord—I know not his title—who has been banished for conspiracy against the king. There are some choice
