While gazing at the dismal scene, however, and unheeding the idlers who
poked about among the ruins, and watched him as one who was the centre of
a drama, he suddenly caught sight of the gold Cock of Beaugard, which had
stood on the top of the mill, in the very centre of the ruins.
Yes, there it was, the crested golden cock which had typified his own
life, as he went head high, body erect, spurs giving warning, and a
clarion in his throat ready to blare forth at any moment. There was the
golden Cock of Beaugard in the cinders, the ashes and the dust. His chin
dropped on his breast, and a cloud like a fog on the coast of Gaspe
settled round him. Yet even as his head drooped, something else
happened--one of those trivial things which yet may be the pivot of great
things. A cock crowed--almost in his very ear, it seemed. He lifted his
head quickly, and a superstitious look flashed into his face. His eyes
fastened on the burnished head of the Cock among the ruins. To his
excited imagination it was as though the ancient symbol of the Barbilles
had spoken to him in its own language of good cheer and defiance. Yes,
there it was, half covered by the ruins, but its head was erect in the
midst of fire and disaster. Brought low, it was still alert above the
wreckage. The child, the dreamer, the optimist, the egoist, and the man
alive in Jean Jacques sprang into vigour again.
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