Then, over the foot-hills, he saw a white horse and its rider show up against the grey dust of the road. Elise’s sorrowful words came to him: “Valmond! Valmond! O Valmond!” His duty to the girl was done; she was safe; now he must follow that figure to where the smoke of the campfires came curling up by Dalgrothe Mountain. There were rumours of trouble; he must again be minister, counsellor, friend, to his master. A half hour later he was climbing the hill where he had seen the white horse and its rider. He heard the sound of a drum in the distance. The gloom and suspense of the night just passed went from him, and into the sunshine he sang: “Oh, grand to the war he goes, O gai, vive le roi!” Not long afterwards he entered the encampment. Around one fire, cooking their breakfasts, were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, and Garotte the lime-burner. They all were in good spirits. “For my part,” Muroc was saying, as Parpon nodded at them, and passed by, “I’m not satisfied.” “Don’t you get enough to eat?” asked the mealman, whose idea of happiness was based upon the appreciation of a good dinner. “But yes, and enough to drink, thanks to His Excellency, and the buttons he puts on my coat.” Muroc jingled some gold coins in his pocket. “It’s this being clean that’s the devil! When I sold charcoal, I was black and beautiful, and no dirt showed; I polished like a pan. Now if I touch a potato, I’m filthy. Pipe-clay is hell’s stuff to show you up as the Lord made you.” Garotte laughed. “Wait till you get to fighting. Powder sticks better than charcoal. For my part, I’m always clean as a whistle.” “But you’re like a bit of wool, lime-burner, you never sweat. Dirt don’t stick to you as to me and the meal man. Duclosse there used to look like a pie when the meal and sweat dried on him. When we reach Paris, and His Excellency gets his own, I’ll take to charcoal again; I’ll fill the palace cellars. That suits me better than chalk and washing every day.” “Do you think we’ll ever get to Paris?” asked the mealman, cocking his head seriously. “That’s the will of God, and the weather at sea, and what the Orleans do,” answered Muroc grinning. It was hard to tell how deep this adventure lay in Muroc’s mind. He had a prodigious sense of humour, the best critic in the world. “For me,” said the lime-burner, “I think there’ll be fighting before we get to the Orleans. There’s talk that the Gover’ment’s coming against us.” “Done!” said the charcoalman. “We’ll see the way our great man puts their noses out of joint.” “Here’s Lajeunesse,” broke in the mealman, as the blacksmith came near to their fire. He was dressed in complete regimentals, made by the parish tailor. “Is that so, monsieur le capitaine?” said Muroc to Lajeunesse. “Is the Gover’ment to be fighting us? Why should it? We’re only for licking the Orleans, and who cares a sou for them, hein?”