the vernacular; but here was something which struck them with
consternation--first, the giant of Manitou in the post of command,
looking like some berserker; and then the formal reading of that stately
document in the name of the Queen.

Far back in the minds of every French habitant present was the old
monarchical sense. He makes, at worst, a poor anarchist, though he is
a good revolutionist; and the French colonials had never been divorced
from monarchical France.

In the eyes of the most forward of those on the Sagalac bridge, there
was a sudden wonderment and confusion. To the dramatic French mind,
ceremonial is ever welcome; and for a moment it had them in its grip,
as old Gabriel Druse read out in his ringing voice, the trenchant royal
summons.

It was a strange and dramatic scene--the Orange funeral standing still,
garish yet solemn, with hundreds of men, rough and coarse, quiet
and refined, dissolute and careless, sober and puritanic, broad and
tolerant, sharp and fanatical; the labour procession, polyglot
in appearance, but with Gallic features and looseness of dress
predominating; excitable, brutish, generous, cruel; without intellect,
but with an intelligence which in the lowest was acute, and with
temperaments responsive to drama.

As Druse read, his eyes now and then flashed, at first he knew not why,
to the slim, bearded figure of the apparent leader. At length he caught
the feverish eye of the man, and held it for a moment. It was familiar,
but it eluded him; he could not place it.

He heard, however, Jowett's voice say to him, scarce above a whisper:

"It's Felix Marchand, boss!"

Jowett also had been puzzled at first by the bearded figure, but it
suddenly flashed upon him that the beard and wig were a disguise, that
Marchand had resorted to Ingolby's device. It might prove as dangerous a
stratagem with him as it had to Ingolby.

There was a moment's hesitation after Druse had finished reading--as
though the men of Manitou had not quite recovered from their
surprise--then the man with the black beard said something to those
nearest him. There was a start forward, and someone cried, "Down with
the Orangemen--et bas l'Orange!"

Like a well-disciplined battalion the Orangemen rolled up quickly into a
compact mass, showing that they had planned their defence well, and
the moment was black with danger, when, suddenly, Druse strode forward.
Flinging right and left two or three river-drivers, he cau