peculate further, the mayor reappeared with
drum and drum-sticks in one hand and a pair of sabots in the other. He
flung the sabots on the grass, and Jacqueline, quite docile now,
slipped both bare feet into them.

"You may keep them," said the mayor, puffing out his mottled cheeks
benevolently; "decency must be maintained in Paradise, even if it
beggars me."

"Thank you," said Jacqueline, sweetly, slinging the drum across her
hip and tightening the cords. She clicked the ebony sticks, touched
the tightly drawn parchment, sounding it with delicate fingers, then
looked up at the mayor for further orders.

"Go, my child," said the mayor, amiably, and Jacqueline marched
through the garden out into the square by the fountain, drum-sticks
clutched in one tanned fist, the scrolls of paper in the other.

In the centre of the square she stood a moment, looking around, then
raised the drum-sticks; there came a click, a flash of metal, and the
quiet square echoed with the startling outcrash. Back from roof and
wall bounded the echoes; the stony pavement rang with the racket.
Already a knot of people had gathered around her; others came swiftly
to windows and doorsteps; the loungers left their stone benches by the
river, the maids of Paradise flocked from the bridge. Even Robert the
Lizard drew in his dripping line to listen. The drum-roll ceased.

"_Attention! Men of Finistere!_ By order of the governor of Lorient,
all men between the ages of twenty and forty, otherwise not exempt,
are ordered to report at the navy-yard barracks, war-port of Lorient,
on the 5th of November of the present year, to join the army of the
Loire.

"Whosoever is absent at roll-call will be liable to the punishment
provided for such delinquents under the laws governing the state of
siege now declared in Morbihan and Finistere. _Citizens, to arms!_

"The enemy is on the march! Though Metz has fallen through treachery,
Paris holds firm! Let the provinces rise and hurl the invader from the
soil of the mother-land!

"_Bretons!_ France calls! Answer with your ancient battle-cry,
'Sainte-Anne! Sainte-Anne!' The eyes of the world are on Armorica! _To
arms!_"

The girl's voice ceased; a dead silence reigned in the square. The men
looked at one another stupidly; a woman began to whimper.

"The curse is on Paradise!" cried a hoarse voice.

The drummer was already drawing another paper from her ragged pocket,
and again in the same clear, emotionless v