I had been
trusting to vague outlines of history; I felt when he began to talk that
I was dealing with a man who not only knew history, but had lived it.
He talked in the fewest but directest words, and waxed eloquent in a
blunt and colossal way. But seeing his wife's eyes fixed on him
intently, he suddenly pulled up, and no more did I get from him
on the subject. He stopped so suddenly that in order to help over the
awkwardness, though I'm not really sure there was any, I began to hum a
song to myself. Now, upon my soul, I didn't think what I was humming;
it was some subterranean association of things, I suppose--but that
doesn't matter here. I only state it to clear myself of any unnecessary
insolence. These were the words I was maundering with this noble voice
of mine:
"'The news I bring, fair Lady,
Will make your tears run down
Put off your rose-red dress so fine
And doff your satin gown!
Monsieur Malbrouck is dead, alas!
And buried, too, for aye;
I saw four officers who bore
His mighty corse away.
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