And Barth fell to kicking the turf in moody discontent. Nancy checked him.
“Don’t destroy the glacis of your chief American outpost, Mr. Barth. You may need it sometime to fight off the French from your possessions.”
Her words had been wholly free from any allegorical meaning. Nevertheless, Barth’s heels ground into the turf more viciously than ever, as he made grim answer,—
“Oh, we English need no artificial defenses to fight off the Frenchmen, you know.”
“Sic ’em!” Brock observed impartially. Then he snatched his hat from his head, and, forgetful of their differences, Barth and St. Jacques followed his lead.
Distant and faint from behind the sheltering wall came the strains of _God Save the King_, as the band marched back from practice.
“Strange to hear _America_ up here!” Churchill said idly.
“_America?_” The Frenchman’s accent was inquiring.
Barth bestowed a contemplative stare upon the stranger.
“Of course. We think it is rather characteristic, and are no end proud of it,” Churchill assured him blandly.
“Mr. Churchill, did you ever happen to hear of _God Save the King_?”
“Queen? Oh, beg pardon! She’s dead, and it is a king now. Yes, I’ve heard of it. What about it?”
“That.” Barth swept his little gray cap towards the dying notes of the final phrase. “Your so-called _America_ is only our _God Save the King_.”
“Is it? I’m no musician, and didn’t know. Still, I can’t see that it hurts it, to have started with you. So did we all, if it comes to that.”
“Then you should give us the credit for having originated it,” Brock suggested.
St. Jacques rolled over on his other elbow.
“As it happens, Brock, you didn’t originate it. It came from the other side of the Channel.”
“Oh, rather! But it’s ours,” Barth interposed hastily.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Barth; but it chances to be French,” he returned quietly. “Lulli wrote it for Louis Quatorze, and England borrowed it without returning thanks.” And then, still leaning on his elbow with his eyes fixed upon Barth, he sang to the end the good old song,—
“Grand Dieu! Sauvez le Roi! Grand Dieu! Sauvez le Roi! Sauvez le Roi! Que toujours glorieux, Louis Victorieux, Voye ses ennemis Toujours soumis.”
As the light baritone voice died on the still air, Nancy looked down at him with a smile.