had sent Monsieur Garon into tears of joy in his own home, and afterwards
off to the Manor House and also to the Seigneury, full of praise of him.

Catching sight of the sergeant, the significance of the thing flashed to
his brain, and his course was mapped out on the instant. Sitting very
straight, Valmond rode steadily down towards the old soldier. The
sergeant had drawn notice as he came up the street, and people came to
their doors, and children followed the grey, dust-covered veteran, in his
last-century uniform. He came as far as the Louis Quinze, and then,
looking on up the road, he saw the white horse, the cocked hat, the white
waistcoat, and the long grey coat. He brought his stick down smartly on
the ground, drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and said: "Courage,
Eustache Lagroin. It is not forty Prussians, but one rogue! Crush him!
Down with the pretender!"

So, with a defiant light in his eye, he came on, the old uniform sagging
loosely on the shrunken body, which yet was soldier-like from head to
foot. Years of camp and discipline and battle and endurance were in the
whole bearing of the man. He was no more of Pontiac and this simple life
than was Valmond himself.

So they neared each other, the challenger and the challenged, the
champion and the invader, and quickly the village emptied itself out to
see.

When Valmond came so close that he could observe every detail of the old
man's uniform, he suddenly reined in his horse, drew him back on his
haunches with his left hand, and with his right saluted--not the old
sergeant, but the coat of the Old Guard, to which his eyes were directed.
Mechanically the hand of the sergeant went to his cap, then, starting