overed with her
apron; round her was a band of sympathising friends. The scene explained
itself in one flash, and Rohan Gwenfern knew his fate. Pale as death, he
rushed across the floor to his mother's side, just as a troop of young
girls flocked into the house singing the Marseillaise. At their head was
Marcelle.

A hard struggle had gone on in the heart of Rohan's sweetheart. She had
been overcome with grief when she drew the fatal number. But her dismay
had quickly turned into an heroic pride at the thought of her lover
becoming a soldier of Napoleon. From her childhood she had learnt from
her uncle to admire and worship the great emperor who had led the armies
of France from victory to victory, and she did not think that Rohan
would refuse to follow him. It is true that she had often heard Gwenfern
say that he loathed war; but many other men of Kromlaix had said the
same thing; and yet, when the hour came, and they were called to serve
in the Grand Army, they had obeyed.

"Look, Rohan!" she cried, holding up in her hand a rosette with a long,
coloured streamer. "Look! I have brought this for you."

Each of the conscripts wore a similar badge, and old Corporal Derval had
stuck one on his own breast. All the crowd cheered as Marcelle advanced,
with bright eyes and flaming cheeks, to her sweetheart.

"Keep back! Do not touch me!" cried Rohan, his face blazing with strange
anger.

"The boy's mad!" exclaimed Corporal Derval, in an angry voice.

"Do you not understand, Rohan?" exclaimed Marcelle, terrified by her
lover's look. "As you did not come, someone had to draw in your name. I
did so, and you are now the King of the Conscripts, and this is your
badge. Let me fasten it upon your breast!"

In a moment her soft fingers attached the rosette to his jacket. Rohan
did not stir; his eyes were fixed on the ground, but his features worked
convulsively.

"Forward now, all of you to the inn!" said Corporal Derval, when the
cheering was over. "We will drink the health of Number One!"

As everybody was moving towards the door, Rohan started as if from a
trance.

"Stay!" he shouted.

All stood listening, and his widowed mother crept up and clasped his
hand.

"You are all mad," he said, in a wild voice, "and I seem to be going
mad, too. What is this you tell me about a conscription and an emperor?
I do not understand. I only know you are all mad. Napoleon has no right
to compel me to fight for him; and if every Fre