his face was troubled, his eyes were hard upon the player.

The procession passed the empty lodges, leaving the ground strewn with
their weapons, and not one of their number stayed behind. They passed
away towards the high hills of the north-west-beautiful austere barriers.

Still the trader gazed, and was pale, and trembled. They watched long.
The throng of pilgrims grew a vague mass; no longer an army of
individuals; and the music came floating back with distant charm.
At last the old man found voice. "My God, it is--"

The Factor touched his arm, interrupting him, and drew a picture from his
pocket--one but just now taken from that musty pile of books, received so
many years before. He showed it to the old man.

"Yes, yes," said the other, "that is he. . . . And the world buried
him forty years ago!"

Pierre, standing near, added with soft irony: "There are strange things
in the world. He is the gamester of the world. 'Mais' a grand comrade
also."

The music came waving back upon them delicately but the pilgrims were
fading from view.

Soon the watchers were alone with the glowing day.