The
rugged body had not one more pound of flesh than was absolutely
necessary to hold together the long, pointed bones. The bronzed,
haphazard face was dominated by a stiff comb of orange-tawny hair, which
faithfully reproduced the gaunt unloveliness of generations of Bonzags.
But there lurked in the rapid advance of the nose and the abrupt,
obstinate eyes a certain staring defiance which effectively limited the
field of comment.
At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roof
reflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of its
owner. It was a Gascon chateau, arrogant and threadbare, which had never
cried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch. About it
and through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossed
and recrossed in their vacillating flight.
Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into the
near woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh.
The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a black
spaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp of
indignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurrying
from every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited with
hungry tongues the intentions of their master.
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