At that instant a song, fresh as the evening breeze, pure as the sky, equable as the color of the ocean, rose above the murmur of the waves, to cast its charm over Nature herself.

The melancholy of that voice, the melody of its tones shed, as it were, a perfume rising to the soul; its harmony rose like a vapor filling the air; it poured a balm on sorrows, or rather it consoled them by expressing them.

The voice mingled with the gurgle of the waves so perfectly that it seemed to rise from the bosom of the waters.

That song was sweeter to the ears of those old men than the tenderest word of love on the lips of a young girl; it brought religious hope into their souls like a voice from heaven.
"What is that ?" asked the duke.
"The little nightingale is singing," said Bertrand; "all is not lost, either for him or for us." "What do you call a nightingale ?" "That is the name we have given to monseigneur's eldest son," replied Bertrand.
"My son!" cried the old man; "have I a son ?--a son to bear my name and to perpetuate it!" He rose to his feet and began to walk about the room with steps in turn precipitate and slow.

Then he made an imperious gesture, sending every one away from him except the priest.
The next morning the duke, leaning on the arm of his old retainer Bertrand, walked along the shore and among the rocks looking for the son he had so long hated.