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The damoiseau of Beaumanoir sat on a ridge commanding for fifty miles the snow-sprinkled uplands.

The hum of the Tartars came faint from a hollow to the west, but where he sat he was in quiet and alone.
He had forgotten the ache of loss which had preyed on him....

His youth had not been squandered.

The joy of young manhood which had been always like a tune in his heart had risen to a nobler song.