with you for awhile--who knows how long--how long?" He placed a finger
meditatively on his lips, sending a sort of mystery into his look and
bearing. "You are French, and so am I. You are playing on the shores of
life, and so am I. You are beginning to think and dream, and so am I.
We are only children till we begin to make our dreams our life. So I am
one with you, for only now do I step from dream to action. My children,
you shall be my brothers, and together we will sow the seed of action and
reap the grain; we will make a happy garden of flowers, and violets shall
bloom everywhere out of our dream--everywhere. Violets, my children,
pluck the wild violets, and bring them to me, and I will give you silver
for them, and I will love you. Never forget," he added, with a swelling
voice, "that you owe your first duty to your mothers, and afterwards to
your country, and to the spirit of France. I see afar"--he looked
towards the setting sun, and stretched out his arm dramatically, yet
such was the eloquence of his voice and person that not even the young
Seigneur or Medallion smiled--"I see afar," he repeated, "the glory of
our dreams fulfilled; after toil and struggle and loss: and I call upon
you now to unfurl the white banner of justice and liberty and the
restoration."

The women who listened guessed little of what he meant by the fantastic
sermon; but they wiped their eyes in sympathy, and gathered their
children to them, and said, "Poor gentleman, poor gentleman!" and took
him instantly to their hearts. The men were mystified, but wine and
rhetoric had fired them, and they cheered him--no one knew why. The
Cure, as he turned to leave, with Monsieur Garon, shook his head in
bewilderment; but even he did not smile, for the man's eloquence had
impressed him; and more than once he looked back at the dispersing crowd
and the quaint figure posing on the veranda. The avocat was thinking
deeply, and as, in the dusk, he left the Cure at his own door, all that