raised his glass.

"Ah, the brave Caron, the dear Lucette Caron! Ah, the time she dragged
me from under the Russian's mare!" He smiled into the distance. "Who
can tell? Perhaps, perhaps--again!" he added.

Then, all at once, as if conscious of the pitiful humour of his
meditations, he came to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and cried:

"To her we love best!"

The charcoalman drank, and smacked his lips. "Yes, yes," he said,
looking into the cup admiringly; "like mother's milk that. White of my
eye, but I do love her!"

The mealman cocked his glance towards the open door. "Elise!" he said
sentimentally, and drank. The blacksmith kissed his daughter, and his
hand rested on her head as he lifted the cup, but he said never a word.

Parpon took one sip, then poured his liquor upon the ground, as though
down there was what he loved best; but his eyes were turned to Dalgrothe
Mountain, which he could see through the open door.

"France!" cried the old soldier stoutly, and tossed off the liquor.




CHAPTER VIII