She had seen the sobbing figure inside the tent, but, with the
occasional wisdom of the foolish of this world, she had not been less
considerate than the children of light.
With brusque, kindly taps of her stick, she drove the girl to her own
tent, and bade her sleep: but sleep was not for Elise that night; and in
the grey dawn, while yet no one was stirring in the camp, she passed
slowly down the valley to her home.
Madame Chalice was greatly troubled also. Valmond's life was saved.
In three days he was on his feet, eager and ardent again, and preparing
to go to the village; but what would the end of it all be? She knew of
De la Riviere's intentions, and she foresaw a crisis. If Valmond were in
very truth a Napoleon, all might be well, though this crusade must close
here. If he were an impostor, things would go cruelly hard with him.
Impostor? Strange how, in spite of all evidence against him, she still
felt a vital sureness in him somewhere; a radical reality, a convincing
quality of presence. At times he seemed like an actor playing his own
character.
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