The sight brought Caron to a sudden halt, and he sat his horse observing them and wondering how it chanced that these men should find themselves so far from the army. Three of them showed signs of having been recently wounded. One carried his arm in a sling, another limped painfully and by the aid of a stick, whilst the head of the third was swathed in bandages. But most remarkable were they by virtue of their clothes. One fellow--he of the bandaged head--wore a coat of yellow brocaded silk, which, in spite of a rent in the shoulder, and sundry stains of wine and oil, was unmistakably of a comparative newness. Beneath this appeared the nankeens and black leggings of a soldier. Another covered his greasy locks with a three-cornered hat, richly laced in gold. A third flaunted under his ragged blue coat a gold-broidered waistcoat and a Brussels cravat. A valuable ring flashed from the grimy finger of a fourth, who, instead of the military white nankeens, wore a pair of black silk breeches. There was one--he of the injured arm--resplendent in a redingote of crimson velvet, whilst he of the limp supported himself upon a gold-headed cane of ebony, which was in ludicrous discord with the tattered blue coat, the phrygian cap, and the toes that peeped through his broken boots. They paused in their game to inspect, in their turn, the newcomers, and to La Boulaye it seemed that their glances were not free from uneasiness. “A picturesque company on my life,” he mused aloud. Then beckoned the one in the crimson coat. “Hola, Citizen,” he called to him. The fellow hesitated a moment, then shuffled forward with a sullen air, and stood by Caron's stirrup. “In God's name, what are you and who are you?” the Deputy demanded. “We are invalided soldiers from the army of Dumouriez,” the man answered him. “But what are you doing here, at Boisvert?” “We are in hospital, Citizen.” “Yonder?” asked La Boulaye derisively, pointing with his whip to the “Eagle Inn.” The fellow nodded. “Yes, Citizen, yonder,” he answered curtly. La Boulaye looked surprised. Then his eyes strayed to the others on the green. “But you are not all invalids?” he questioned. “Many of us are convalescent.” “Convalescent? But those three braves yonder are something more than convalescent. They are as well as I am. Why do they not rejoin the troops?” The fellow looked up with a scowl. “We take our orders from our officer,” he answered sourly. “Ah!” quoth the Deputy. “There is someone in charge here, then? Who may it be?” “Captain Charlot,” the fellow answered, with an impudent air, which clearly seemed to ask: “What have you to say to that?” “Captain Charlot?” echoed La Boulaye, in astonishment, for the name was that of the sometime peasant of Bellecour, who had since risen in life, and who, as an officer, had in a few months acquired a brilliant fame for deeds of daring. “Charlot Tardivet?” he inquired.