Rock of Red Pigeons was a precipice and wild water; on the other was a
deep valley like a cup, and in the centre of this was a sort of plateau
or gentle slope. Dalgrothe Mountain towered above. Upon this plateau
Valmond had pitched his tents. There was water, there was good air, and
for purposes of drill--or defence--it was excellent. The approaches were
patrolled, so that no outside stragglers could reach either the Rock of
Red Pigeons or the valley, or see what was going on below, without
permission. Lagroin was everywhere, drilling, commanding, browbeating
his recruits one minute, and praising them the next. Lajeunesse,
Garotte, and Muroc were invaluable, each after his kind. Duclosse the
mealman was sutler.

The young Seigneur and his companions were not challenged, and they
passed on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. Looking down, they had a
perfect view of the encampment. The tents had come from lumber-camps,
from river-driving gangs, and from private stores; there was some regular
uniform, flags were flying everywhere, many fires were burning, the voice
of Lagroin in command came up the valley loudly, and Valmond watched the
drill and a march past. The fires lit up the sides of the valley and
glorified the mountains beyond. In this inspiring air it was impossible
to feel an accent of disaster or to hear the stealthy footfall of ruin.

The three journeyed down into the valley, then up onto the plateau, where
they were challenged, allowed to pass, and came to where Valmond sat upon
his horse. At sight of them, with a suspicion of the truth, he ordered
Lagroin to march the men down the long plateau. They made a good figure
filing past the three visitors, as the young Seigneur admitted.

Valmond got from his horse, and waited for them. He looked weary, and
there were dark circles round his eyes, as though he had had an illness;