the Manor. On the very eve of the Governor's coming, despite the Cure's
and the Avocat's warnings, he had held a patriotic meeting intended to
foster a stubborn, if silent, disregard of the Governor's presence
amongst them.

The speech of the Cure, who had given guarantee for the good behaviour of
his people to the Government, had been so tinged with sorrowful appeal,
had recalled to them so acutely the foolish demonstration which had ended
in the death of Valmond; that the people had turned from the exasperated
Seigneur with the fire of monomania in his eyes, and had left him alone
in the hall, passionately protesting that the souls of Frenchmen were not
in them.

Next day, upon the church, upon the Louis Quinze Hotel, and elsewhere,
the Union Jack flew--the British colours flaunted it in Pontiac with
welcome to the Governor. But upon the Seigneury was another flag--it of
the golden-lilies. Within the Manor House M. Louis Racine sat in the
great Seigneurial chair, returned from the gates of death. As he had
come home from the futile public meeting, galloping through the streets
and out upon the Seigneury road in the dusk, his horse had shied upon a
bridge, where mischievous lads waylaid travellers with ghostly heads made
of lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins, and horse and man had been
plunged into the stream beneath. His faithful servant Havel had seen the
accident and dragged his insensible master from the water.

Now the Seigneur sat in the great arm-chair glowering out upon the
cheerful day. As he brooded, shaken and weak and bitter--all his
thoughts were bitter now--a flash of scarlet, a glint of white plumes
crossed his line of vision, disappeared, then again came into view, and
horses' hoofs rang out on the hard road below. He started to his feet,