‘Play ten thousand heroes to Walhalla,’ he answer. I play, and I think of my brother Jacques, who went fighting to heaven the day before. Beautiful God! that was a day at Auerstadt.” “Soldier,” said Valmond, waving his hand, “step on. There is a drum at Louis Quinze. Let us go together, comrade.” The old sergeant was in a dream. He wheeled, the crowd made way for him, and at the neck of the white horse he came on with Valmond. As they passed the carriage of Madame Chalice, Valmond made no sign. They stopped in front of the hotel, and Valmond, motioning to the garcon, gave him an order. The old sergeant stood silent, his eyes full fixed upon Valmond. In a moment the boy came out with the drum. Valmond took it, and, holding it in his hands, said softly: “Soldier of the Old Guard, here is a drum of France.” Without a word the old man took the drum, his fingers trembling as he fastened it to his belt. When the sticks were in his hand, all trembling ceased, and his hands became steady. He was living in the past entirely. “Soldier,” said Valmond in a loud voice, “remember Austerlitz. The Heights of Pratzen are before you. Play up the feet of the army.” For an instant the old man did not move, and then a sullen sort of look came over his face. He was 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!”