“_C’est bien_,” said he. “I take up your pledge. I have to go to-morrow to Périgueux to see _Monsieur le Préfet_, who has a certain friendliness for me. He has influence with the _Ministère de la Guerre_. Accompany me to Périgueux. I undertake to see that it is arranged.” “I thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” said Martin. Then everybody talked at once, and lifted their glasses to Martin, and Monsieur Viriot despatched Cazensac for the sweet champagne in which nearly a year ago they had drunk Lucien’s health; and Bigourdin embraced him; and when the wine was poured out, there were cries of “_Vive l’Angleterre!_” “_Vive la France!_” “_Vive Martin!_” And the square-headed old Monsieur Viriot set the climax of this ovation by lifting his glass at arm’s length and proclaiming “_Vive notre bon Périgordin!_” Said Fortinbras, who sat next to him, “I would give the rest of my life to be as young as you, just for the next few months. My God, you must feel proud!” Martin’s steady English blood asserted itself: “I don’t,” said he, “I feel a damned premature hero.” * * * * * It is only in the Légion Etrangère, that fantastic, romantic regiment of dare-devil desperadoes capable of all iniquities and of all heroisms, that a foreigner can enlist straight away, no questions asked. To be incorporated in the regular army of France is another matter. Wires have to be pulled. They were pulled in Martin’s case. It was to his credit that he had served two years—gaining the stripes of a corporal—in the Rifle Corps of the University of Cambridge. At the psychological moment of pulling, England declared war on Germany. The resources of the British Empire, men and money and ships and blood were on the side of France. England and France were one. A second’s consideration of the request of the Préfet de la Dordogne and a hurriedly scrawled signature constituted Martin a potential member of the French Army. It happened that, when the notice of authorisation came, the first person he ran across was Félise, by the door of the _fabrique_. He waved the paper. “I am accepted.” She turned pale and put her hand to her heart, but she met his eyes bravely. “When do you go?” “At once—straight to Périgueux to enlist.” “And when will you come back?” “God knows,” said he. Then he became aware of her standing scared, with parted lips and heaving bosom. “Of course I hope to come back; some time or other, when the War’s over. Naturally—but——” She said quaveringly—“You may be killed.” “So may millions. I take my chance.” She turned aside, clapped both hands to her face and broke into a passion of weeping. Instinctively he put an arm around her. She sobbed on his shoulder. He whispered: “Do you care so much about what happens to me?” She tore herself away and faced him with eyes flashing through her tears.