Long ago something would have been done to commemorate them but that three of them were Protestants, and difficulties had been raised by the bigoted.

But Francois thought only of the young men in their common grave at St.
Eustache.

He remembered when they went away one bright morning, full of the joy of an erring patriotism, of the ardour of a weak but fascinating cause: race against race, the conquered against the conquerors, the usurped against the usurpers.
In the space before the parish church it stands--a broken shaft, with an unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions, a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful bad ambition.

One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning the people came to Mass it was there.

All night had Francois and his men worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered shaft set firmly in its place.