ing, unconscious of the awful peril
passed, and the painful salvation come to her daughter.

The blue-grey light of morning showed under the edge of the closed
window-blind. In the room day was mingling incongruously with night,
for the candle looked sickly, and the aged crone's face was of a leaden
colour, lighted by the piercing eyes that brooded hungrily on her
son--her only son: the dwarf had told her of Gabriel's death.

Parpon opened the door and went out. Day was spreading over the drowsy
landscape. There was no life as yet in all the horizon, no fires, no
animals stirring, no early workmen, no anxious harvesters. But the birds
were out, and presently here and there cattle rose up in the fields.

Then, over the foot-hills, he saw a white horse and its rider show up
against the grey dust of the road. Elise's sorrowful words came to him:
"Valmond! Valmond! O Valmond!"

His duty to the girl was done; she was safe; now he must follow that
figure to where the smoke of the campfires came curling up by Dalgrothe
Mountain. There were rumours of trouble; he must again be minister,
counsellor, friend, to his master.

A half hour later he was climbing the hill where he had seen the white
horse and its rider. He heard the sound of a drum in the distance. The
gloom and suspense of the night just passed went from him, and into the
sunshine he sang:

"Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, vive le roi!"

Not long afterwards he entered the encampment. Around one fire, cooking
their breakfasts, were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, and
Garotte the lime-burner. They all were in good spirits.

"For my part," Muroc was saying, as Parpon nodded at them, and passed
by, "I'm not satisfied."

"Don't you get enough to eat?" asked the mealman, whose idea of
happiness was based upon the appreciation of a good dinner.

"But yes, and enough to drink, thanks to His Excellency, and the buttons
he puts on my coat." Muroc jingled some gold coins in his pocket. "It's
this being clean that's the devil! When I sold charcoal, I was black and
beautiful, and no dirt showed; I polished like a pan. Now if I touch a
potato, I'm filthy. Pipe-clay is hell's stuff to show you up as the
Lord made you." Garotte laughed. "Wait till you get to fighting.
Powder sticks better than charcoal. For my part, I'm always clean as a
whistle."

"But you're like a bit of wool, lime-burner, you never sweat. Dirt don't
stick to