“What is it ?” he insisted, “are you frightened?”
She looked at him strangely.
“No—no—not frightened,—you are very good to me———”
“By Jove!” he burst out, “what do you mean by saying I’m good to you! That’s at least the third time, and I don’t understand!”
The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short. “Listen,” she whispered, “they are going to close. It’s late, oh, so late!”
The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded and the echoes struck back the notes from the gray palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up before them—his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettes tossing on his shoulders. He passed, leaving the crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels began the monotonous cry: “on ferme! on fe-rme!” and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de Tournon.
“On ferme! on ferme!”
“Good-night,” she whispered, “I must return alone to-night.”
