"
"Rank, Madame!" burst out Mr. Calvert at these words. "I never knew
before that morality or immorality, loyalty or treason, honor or
dishonor had aught to do with rank! In our country 'tis not so. A king's
word can make of the meanest scoundrel a duke, a marquis, but an honest
man holds his rank by a power greater than any king's." He bent upon her
such a compelling gaze that she was forced to turn and look at him.
Before Calvert's flashing eyes and manly, honest indignation her own
anger died out and an unwilling admiration took its place. She blushed
again deeply and bit her lips. This young American, with his noble
face, his simplicity of manner and democratic scorn of her rank and
pretensions, had not only accused, but silenced her. At any rate he
should not see that he had impressed her! She laughed lightly.
"What a noble sentiment, Monsieur! Did you find it in one of Monsieur
Rousseau's books?"
"No, Madame, it was not in the works of the famous Monsieur Rousseau
that I found the expression of that sentiment," replied Calvert,
hesitating slightly. "'Tis the theme of a little song by a young man
named Robert Burns, who writes the sweetest poetry in the world, I
think.
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