.............
We saw above the laurels,
His soul fly forth amain.
And each one fell upon his face
And then rose up again.
And so we sang the glories,
For which great Malbrouck bled;
Mironton, Mironton, Mirontaine,
Great Malbrouck, he is dead.'
"I felt the silence grow peculiar, uncomfortable. I looked up. Mrs.
Malbrouck was rising to her feet with a look in her face that would make
angels sorry--a startled, sorrowful thing that comes from a sleeping
pain. What an ass I was! Why, the Man's name was Malbrouck; her name
was Malbrouck--awful insolence! But surely there was something in the
story of the song itself that had moved her. As I afterward knew,
that was it. Malbrouck sat still and unmoved, though I thought I saw
something stern and masterful in his face as he turned to me; but again
instantly his eyes were bent on his wife with a comforting and
affectionate expression. She disappeared into the house.
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