circled the town. Marteau had drawn his old cloak closely
about him, so that it was not evident that he was in uniform. Pierre's
nondescript garments were so tattered and torn that neither would they
betray the pair. The sentry was clad in the old uniform of the
Fifth-of-the-Line, except that he sported a white cockade in his
head-gear and every device that referred to the Empire had been
carefully eliminated. Still he was the same soldier, and Marteau
recognized him at once as one of the veterans of the regiment. The
recognition was not mutual. Captivity, illness, privation had wrought
many changes in the officer's face. The man looked at him curiously
and wonderingly, however, as he challenged him.

"My friend," asked the officer, "of what regiment are you, I pray?"

"The Fifth-of-the----" began the man instinctively, apparently, and
then he stopped. "The regiment Dauphine," he answered, his face
clouding.

"And what battalion?"

"The first, sir."

"Are there other troops in garrison?"

"Another regiment of infantry, that was the Seventh. I don't know its
new name. And some artillery to man the walls."

"Good. I should like---- Who is in command of the town?"

"There is a new one since yesterday. He has just come down from Paris,
the King sent----"

At that instant the gruff voice of the subaltern in command of the
detachment at the gate rang out.

"Turn out the guard for the Commanding Officer."

"Back, monsieur," cried the soldier, falling into line with his
comrades, who came running from the guard-house and ranged themselves
in order.

Marteau stepped back into the shadow of the gate, just as a carriage
and four, carrying three people and attended by a brilliant cavalry
escort, dashed through the narrow street of the town and passed out of
the gate, the soldiers of the guard standing at attention in line and
presenting arms as the carriage and its following went on into the
country by the highroad. The horses had been moving at a fast trot.
Marteau had time for but one glance as the vehicle passed. One glance
was enough. When the guard had been dismissed and the soldier on post
turned again to look at the officer, he was astonished at the change
that had come over him. Marteau, pale as death, leaned against the
wall, his hand on his heart.

"What's the matter?" cried the soldier, staring at him curiously.

"Has monsieur seen a ghost?" asked young Pierre, running toward him in
gr