as not a drummer at Austerlitz, and for the
instant he did not remember the tune the drummers played.

"Soldier," said Valmond softly, "with 'the Little Sword that Danced'
play up the feet of the army."

A light broke over the old man's face. The swift look he cast on Valmond
had no distrust now. Instantly his hand went to his cap.

"My General!" he said, and stepped in front of the white horse. There
was a moment's pause, and then the sergeant's arms were raised, and down
came the sticks with a rolling rattle on the leather. They sent a shiver
of feeling through the village, and turned the meek white horse into a
charger of war. No man laughed at the drama performed in Pontiac that
day, not even the little coterie who were present, not even Monsieur De
la Riviere, whose brow was black with hatred, for he had watched 'the
eyes of Madame Chalice fill with tears at the old sergeant's tale of
Auerstadt, had noticed her admiring glance, "at this damned comedian,"
as he now called Valmond. When he came to her carriage, she said, with
oblique suggestion:

"What do you think of it?"

"Impostor! fakir!" was his sulky reply. "Nothing more."

"If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear monsieur, why be
yourself longer? Listen!" she added. Valmond had spoken down at the
aged drummer, whose arms were young again, as once more he marched
on Pratzen. Suddenly from the sergeant's lips there broke, in a high,
shaking voice, to the rattle of the drum:

"Conscrits, au pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Marchez au pas,
Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!"

They had not gone twenty yards before fifty men and boys, caught in the
inflammable moment, sprang out from the crowd, fell involuntarily into
rough marching order, and joined in the inspiring refrain:

"Marchez au pas,
Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!"

The old man in front was charged anew. All at once, at a word from
Valmond, he broke into the Marseillaise, with his voice and with
his drum. To these Frenchmen of an age before the Revolution, the
Marseillaise had only been a song. Now in their ignorant breasts there
waked the spirit of France, and from their throats there burst out, with
a half-delirious ecstasy:

"Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive."

As they neared the Louis Quinze, a dozen men, just arrived in the
village, returned from river-driving