our and the honour of France; and you do also vow to require
a like loyalty and obedience of all men under your command. Swear."

There was a slight pause, for the old man's voice had the ring of a
fatal earnestness. It was no farce, but a real thing.

"Swear," he said again. "Raise your right hand."

"Done!" said Muroc. "To the devil with the charcoal! I'll go wash my
face."

"There's my hand on it," added Duclosse; "but that rascal Petrie will
get my trade, and I'd rather be strung by the Orleans than that."

"Till I've no more wind in my bellows!" responded Lajeunesse, raising
his hand, "if he keeps faith with my Madelinette."

"On the honour of a soldier," said Lagroin, and he crossed himself.

"God save us all!" said Parpon. Obeying a motion of the dwarf's hand,
Lagroin drew from his pocket a flask of cognac, with four little tin
cups fitting into each other. Handing one to each, he poured them
brimming full. Then, filling his own, he spilled a little in the steely
dust of the smithy floor. All did the same, though they knew not why.

"What's that for?" asked the mealman.

"To show the Little Corporal, dear Corporal Violet, and my comrades of
the Old Guard, that we don't forget them," cried Lagroin.

He drank slowly, holding his head far back, and as he brought it
straight again, he swung on his heel, for two tears were racing down his
cheeks.

The mealman wiped his eyes in sympathy; the charcoalman shook his
head at the blacksmith, as though to say, "Poor devil!" and Parpon
straightway filled their glasses again. Madelinette took the flask to
the old sergeant. He looked at her kindly, and patted her shoulder. Then
he raised his glass.

"Ah, the brave Caron, the dear Lucette Caron! Ah, the time she dragged
me from under the Russian's mare!" He smiled into the distance. "Who can
tell? Perhaps, perhaps--again!" he added.

Then, all at once, as if conscious of the pitiful humour of his
meditations, he came to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and cried:

"To her we love best!"

The charcoalman drank, and smacked his lips. "Yes, yes," he said,
looking into the cup admiringly; "like mother's milk that. White of my
eye, but I do love her!"

The mealman cocked his glance towards the open door. "Elise!" he said
sentimentally, and drank. The blacksmith kissed his daughter, and his
hand rested on her head as he lifted the cup, but he said never a word.

Parpon took one sip, then poured his liquor upon