He saw him from afar in a recess of the granite rocks, lying carelessly extended in the sun, his head on a tuft of mossy grass, his feet gracefully drawn up beneath him.

So lying, Etienne was like a swallow at rest.

As soon as the tall old man appeared upon the beach, the sound of his steps mingling faintly with the voice of the waves, the young man turned his head, gave the cry of a startled bird, and disappeared as if into the rock itself, like a mouse darting so quickly into its hole that we doubt if we have even seen it.
"Hey! tete-Dieu! where has he hid himself ?" cried the duke, reaching the rock beside which his son had been lying.
"He is there," replied Bertrand, pointing to a narrow crevice, the edges of which had been polished smooth by the repeated assaults of the high tide.
"Etienne, my beloved son!" called the old man.
The hated child made no reply.

For hours the duke entreated, threatened, implored in turn, receiving no response.

Sometimes he was silent, with his ear at the cleft of the rock, where even his enfeebled hearing could detect the beating of Etienne's heart, the quick pulsations of which echoed from the sonorous roof of his rocky hiding-place.
"At least _he_ lives!" said the old man, in a heartrending voice.
Towards the middle of the day, the father, reduced to despair, had recourse to prayer:-- "Etienne," he said, "my dear Etienne, God has punished me for disowning you.