steps are those in the yard? The dog speaks--ah!"

The old man rushed through the doorway with arms stretched out, wildly
sobbing, "Martin, Martin, my boy!"--and clasped the miserable figure in
a long embrace.

"Did I not say so, Monsieur Angelot?" the little mother cried; and the
young man, with a sudden instinct of joy and reverence, caught her rough
hand and kissed it as she went out of the door. "Tell madame she was
right," she said.

Angelot called Nego and walked silently away. As he went he heard their
cries of welcome, their sobs of grief, and then he heard a hoarse voice
ringing, echoed by the old walls all about, and it shouted--"Vive
l'Empereur!"

Angelot felt strangely exalted as he walked away. The heroism of the
crippled soldier touched him keenly; this was the Empire in a different
aspect from any that he yet knew; the opportunism of his father and of
Monsieur de Mauves, the bare worldliness of the Sainfoys, the military
brutality of Ratoneau. The voice of this poor soldier, wandering back, a
helpless, destitute wreck, to end his days in his old home, sounded like
the bugle-call of all that generous self-sacrifice, that pure enthusiasm
for glory, which rose to follow Napoleon and made his career possible.
Angelot felt as if he too could march in such an army. Then as he strode
down the moor he heard Herve de Sainfoy's voice again: "And why not even
now?" and again he thought of those dearest ones now so angry with him,
whose loyalty to old France and her kings was a part of their religion,
and whom no present brilliancy of conquest and fame could dazzle or lead
astray.

Thinking of these things, Angelot came down from the moor into a narrow
lane which skirted it, part of the labyrinth of crossing ways which led
from the south to La Mariniere and Lancilly. This lane was joined, some
way above, by the road which led across the moor from Les Chouettes. It
was not the usual road from the south to Lancilly, but turned out of
that a mile or two south, to wander westward round one or two lonely
farms like La Joubardiere. It ran deep between banks of stones covered
with heather and ling and a wild mass of broom and blackberry bushes,
the great round heads of the pollard oaks rising at intervals, so that
there were patches of dark shadow, and the road itself was a succession
of formidable ruts and holes and enormous stones.

In this thoroughfare two carriages had met, one going down-hill from the
moorland