CHAPTER XII
The sun was going down behind the hills, like a drowsy boy to his bed,
radiant and weary from his day's sport. The villagers were up at
Dalgrothe Mountain, soldiering for Valmond. Every evening, when the
haymakers put up their scythes, the mill-wheel stopped turning, and the
Angelus ceased, the men marched away into the hills, where the ardent
soldier of fortune had pitched his camp.
Tents, muskets, ammunition came out of dark places, as they are ever sure
to come when the war-trumpet sounds. All seems peace, but suddenly, at
the wild call, the latent barbarian in human nature springs up and is
ready; and the cruder the arms, the fiercer the temper that wields.
Recruits now arrived from other parishes, and besides those who came
every night to drill, there were others who stayed always in camp. The
lime-burner left his kiln, and sojourned with his dogs at Dalgrothe
Mountain; the mealman neglected his trade; and Lajeunesse was no longer
at his blacksmith shop, save after dark, when the red glow of his forge
could be seen till midnight. He was captain of a company in the daytime,
forgeron at night.
Valmond, no longer fantastic in dress, speech, or manner, was happy,
busy, buoyed up and cast down by turn, troubled, exhilarated. He could
not understand these variations of health and mood. He had not felt
equably well since the night of Gabriel's burial in the miasmic air of
the mountain.
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