“Good, my leeches!” said Parpon; “you shall have blood to suck. But we’ll leave the English be. France first, then our dogs will take a snap at the flag on the citadel yonder.” He nodded in the direction of Quebec. Lagroin then put five gold pieces each into the hands of Muroc and Duclosse, and said: “I take you into the service of Prince Valmond Napoleon, and you do hereby swear to serve him loyally, even to the shedding of your blood, for his honour 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.