"In his old age," Elsie said, "the old routier settled down to a quiet life, and doted on his grandchildren. Andrew's dying words were 'I have chosen a good life.' He was buried in the family chapel in Eltham, in June 1382."
"Thirteen eighty-two," Chris said. "He was fifty-four."
Johnston was cleaning the rest of the stone. They saw Marek's shield: a prancing English lion on a field of French lilies. Above the shield were words in French.
Elsie said, "His family motto, echoing Richard Lionheart, appeared above the coat of arms: Mes compaingnons cui j'amoie et cui j'aim, . . . Me di, chanson." She paused. " 'Companions whom I loved, and still do love, . . . Tell them, my song.' "
They stared at Andre for a long time.
Johnston touched the stone contours of Marek's face with his fingertips. "Well," he said finally, "at least we know what happened."
"Do you think he was happy?" Chris said.
"Yes," Johnston said. But he was thinking that however much Marek loved it, it could never be his world. Not really. He must have always felt a foreigner there, a person separated from his surroundings, because he had come from somewhere else.
The wind whined. A few leaves blew, scraping across the floor. The air was damp and cold. They stood silently.
"I wonder if he thought of us," Chris said, looking at the stone face. "I wonder if he ever missed us."
"Of course he did," the Professor said. "Don't you miss him?"
Chris nodded. Kate sniffled, and blew her nose.
"I do," Johnston said.
They went back outside. They walked down the hill to the car. By now the rain had entirely stopped, but the clouds remained dark and heavy, hanging low over the distant hills.