It was an old man singing, the air perhaps that of some old chanson of his own country, sung by villagers long before: "Souvenirs du jeune age Sont gravis dans mon coeur, Quand je pense au village, Revenant du bonheur--" The old voice halted, at length resuming, idly: "_Quand je pense--quand je pense_." Then after humming the air for a little time it broke out as though in the chorus, bold and strong: "Rendes-moi ma patrie, ou laisses-moi mourir!" The words came to her with a sudden thrill.

What did they not mean to the alien, to the prisoner, to the outcast, anywhere in all the world! "Give me back my country, or let me die!" She stepped to the window and looked down.

An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled, was digging about the shrubbery, perhaps preparing some of the plants for their winter sleep.

He was clad in leather and linsey, and seemed ancient as the hills.

He resumed his song.
Josephine leaned out from the casement and softly joined in the refrain: "Rendez-moi ma patrie, ou laissez-moi mourir!" [Illustration: An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled] The old man dropped his spade.