He descended and mounted his waiting horse. At that moment De la Riviere appeared on the balcony, and, stepping forward, said: “My friends, do you know what you are doing? This is folly. This man--” He got no further, for Valmond raised his hand to Lagroin, and the drums began to beat. Then he rode down in front of Lajeunesse’s men, the others sprang from the drays and fell into place, and soon the little army was marching, four deep, through the village. This was the official beginning of Valmond’s fanciful quest for empire. The people had a phrase, and they had a man; and they saw no further than the hour. As they filed past the house of Elise Malboir, the girl stood in the glow of a bonfire, beside the oven where Valmond had first seen her. All around her was the wide awe of night, enriched by the sweet perfume of a coming harvest. He doffed his hat to her, then to the Tricolor, which Lagroin had fastened on a tall staff before the house. Elise did not stir, did not courtesy or bow, but stood silent--entranced. She was in a dream. This man, riding at the head of the simple villagers, was part of her vision; and, at the moment, she did not rouse from the ecstasy of reverie where her new-born love had led her. For Valmond the scene had a moving power. He heard again her voice crying in the smithy: “He is dying! Oh, my love! my love!” He was now in the heart of a fantastical adventure. Filled with its spirit, he would carry it bravely to the end, enjoying every step in it, comedy or tragedy. Yet all day, since he had eaten the sacred bread, there had been ringing in his ears the words: “Holy bread, I take thee; If I die suddenly, Serve me as a sacrament.” It came home to him, at the instant, what a toss-up it all was. What was he doing? No matter: it was a game, in which nothing was sure--nothing save this girl. She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing passion, throw all things away for him. Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself, absolute, true, abiding. His nature swam gloriously in his daring exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous recklessness; it was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake of the dice--had Fate loaded them against him? He looked up the hill towards the Manor. Life was there in its essence; beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not for him; dauphin or fool, it was not for him! Madame Chalice was his friendly inquisitor, not his enemy; she endured him for some talent he had shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the cause; but that was all. Yet she was ever in this dream of his, and he felt that she would always be; the unattainable, the undeserved, more splendid than his cause itself--the cause for which he would give--what would he give? Time would show.