A hard struggle had gone on in the heart of Rohan’s sweetheart.  She had been overcome with grief when she drew the fatal number.  But her dismay had quickly turned into an heroic pride at the thought of her lover becoming a soldier of Napoleon.  From her childhood she had learnt from her uncle to admire and worship the great emperor who had led the armies of France from victory to victory, and she did not think that Rohan would refuse to follow him.  It is true that she had often heard Gwenfern say that he loathed war; but many other men of Kromlaix had said the same thing; and yet, when the hour came, and they were called to serve in the Grand Army, they had obeyed.

“Look, Rohan!” she cried, holding up in her hand a rosette with a long, coloured streamer.  “Look!  I have brought this for you.”

Each of the conscripts wore a similar badge, and old Corporal Derval had stuck one on his own breast.  All the crowd cheered as Marcelle advanced, with bright eyes and flaming cheeks, to her sweetheart.

“Keep back!  Do not touch me!” cried Rohan, his face blazing with strange anger.

“The boy’s mad!” exclaimed Corporal Derval, in an angry voice.

“Do you not understand, Rohan?” exclaimed Marcelle, terrified by her lover’s look.  “As you did not come, someone had to draw in your name.  I did so, and you are now the King of the Conscripts, and this is your badge.  Let me fasten it upon your breast!”

In a moment her soft fingers attached the rosette to his jacket.  Rohan did not stir; his eyes were fixed on the ground, but his features worked convulsively.

“Forward now, all of you to the inn!” said Corporal Derval, when the cheering was over.  “We will drink the health of Number One!”

As everybody was moving towards the door, Rohan started as if from a trance.

“Stay!” he shouted.

All stood listening, and his widowed mother crept up and clasped his hand.

“You are all mad,” he said, in a wild voice, “and I seem to be going mad, too.  What is this you tell me about a conscription and an emperor?  I do not understand.  I only know you are all mad.  Napoleon has no right to compel me to fight for him; and if every Frenchman had my heart, he would not reign another day.  I refuse to be led like a sheep to the slaughter.  He can kill me if he wills, but he cannot force me to kill my fellow-men.  You can go if you like, and do his bloody work.  Had I the power I would serve him as I serve this badge of his!”

Tearing the rosette from his breast, he cast it into the flaming fire.

“Rohan, for God’s sake be silent!” cried Marcelle.  “You speak like a madman.  It is all my fault.  I thought I should bring you good luck by drawing for you.  Won’t you forgive me?”

The young fisherman looked sadly into his sweetheart’s face, and when he saw her wet eyes and quivering lips his heart was stirred.  He took her hand and kissed it, but suddenly an ill-favoured face was thrust forward between the two lovers.