Years of camp and discipline and battle and endurance were in the
whole bearing of the man. He was no more of Pontiac and this simple life
than was Valmond himself.
So they neared each other, the challenger and the challenged, the
champion and the invader, and quickly the village emptied itself out to
see.
When Valmond came so close that he could observe every detail of the old
man's uniform, he suddenly reined in his horse, drew him back on his
haunches with his left hand, and with his right saluted--not the old
sergeant, but the coat of the Old Guard, to which his eyes were directed.
Mechanically the hand of the sergeant went to his cap, then, starting
forward with an angry movement, he seemed as though he would attack
Valmond.
Valmond sat very still, his right hand thrust in his bosom, his forehead
bent, his eyes calmly, resolutely, yet distantly, looking at the
sergeant, who grew suddenly still also, while the people watched and
wondered.
As Valmond looked, a soft light passed across his face, relieving its
theatrical firmness, the half-contemptuous curl of his lip. He knew well
enough that this event would make or unmake him in Pontiac.
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