a coming harvest. He doffed his hat to her, then to the Tricolor, which
Lagroin had fastened on a tall staff before the house. Elise did not
stir, did not courtesy or bow, but stood silent--entranced. She was in a
dream. This man, riding at the head of the simple villagers, was part
of her vision; and, at the moment, she did not rouse from the ecstasy of
reverie where her new-born love had led her.

For Valmond the scene had a moving power. He heard again her voice
crying in the smithy: "He is dying! Oh, my love! my love!"

He was now in the heart of a fantastical adventure. Filled with its
spirit, he would carry it bravely to the end, enjoying every step in
it, comedy or tragedy. Yet all day, since he had eaten the sacred bread,
there had been ringing in his ears the words:

"Holy bread, I take thee;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament."

It came home to him, at the instant, what a toss-up it all was. What was
he doing? No matter: it was a game, in which nothing was sure--nothing
save this girl. She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing
passion, throw all things away for him.

Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this
dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself,
absolute, true, abiding. His nature swam gloriously in his daring
exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous
recklessness; it was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake of the
dice--had Fate loaded them against him?

He looked up the hill towards the Manor. Life was there in its essence;
beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not
for him; dauphin or fool, it was not for him! Madame Chalice was his
friendly inquisitor, not his enemy; she endured him for some talent he
had shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the cause; but
that was all. Yet she was ever in this dream of his, and he felt that
she would always be; the unattainable, the undeserved, more splendid
than his cause itself--the cause for which he would give--what would he
give? Time would show.

But Elise Malboir, abundant, true, fine, in the healthy vigour of her
nature, with no dream in her heart but love fulfilled--she was no
part of his adventure, but of that vital spirit which can bring to the
humblest as to the highest the good reality of life.

CHAPTER XI

It was the poignancy of these feelings which,