"Nothing more." "If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear monsieur, why be yourself longer?
Listen!" she added.

Valmond had spoken down at the aged drummer, whose arms were young again, as once more he marched on Pratzen.

Suddenly from the sergeant's lips there broke, in a high, shaking voice, to the rattle of the drum: "Conscrits, au pas; Ne pleurez pas; Ne pleurez pas; Marchez au pas, Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!" They had not gone twenty yards before fifty men and boys, caught in the inflammable moment, sprang out from the crowd, fell involuntarily into rough marching order, and joined in the inspiring refrain: "Marchez au pas, Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!" The old man in front was charged anew.

All at once, at a word from Valmond, he broke into the Marseillaise, with his voice and with his drum.

To these Frenchmen of an age before the Revolution, the Marseillaise had only been a song.