"Belle saison de ma jeunesse--
Beaux jours du printemps!"

sang the violin. A shot sounded near the house. Adam Gaudylock emerged
from the shadow of the locust trees and crossed the moonlit lawn below
the terrace. "I've shot that night-hawk. He'll maraud no more," he said,
and passed on toward his quarter for the night.

Rand made a motion as if to follow, then checked himself. It was late,
and it had been a day of strife, but his iron frame felt no fatigue and
his mood was one of sombre exaltation. What was the use of going to bed,
of wasting the moonlit hours? He turned to the Frenchman. "Play me," he
commanded, "a conquering air! Play me the Marseillaise!"

Mr. Pincornet started violently. Down came the fiddle from his chin, the
bow in his beruffled hand cut the air with a gesture of angry
repudiation. When he was excited he forgot his English, and he now swore
volubly in French; then, recovering himself, stepped back a pace, and
regarded with high dudgeon his host of the night. "Sir," he cried,
"before I became a dancing master I was a French gentleman! I served the
King. I will teach you to dance, but--Morbleu!--I will not play you the
Marseillaise!"

"I beg your pardon," said Rand. "I forgot that you could not be a
Republican. Well, play me a fine Royalist air."

"Are you so indifferent?" asked the dancing master, not without a faded
scorn. "Royalist or Republican--either air?"

"Indifferent?" repeated Rand. "I don't know that I am indifferent.