The cause lay in the implacable enmity of one man--his Chief.
Far-sundered as they were by position, and rarely as they could come
into actual contact, that merciless weight of animosity, from the great
man to his soldier had lain on the other like iron, and clogged him
from all advancement. His thoughts were of it now. Only to-day, at an
inspection, the accidentally broken saddle-girth of a boy-conscript
had furnished pretext for a furious reprimand, a volley of insolent
opprobrium hurled at himself, under which he had had to sit mute in his
saddle, with no other sign that he was human beneath the outrage than
the blood that would, despite himself, flush the pale bronze of his
forehead. His thoughts were on it now.
"There are many losses that are bitter enough," he mused; "but there is
not one so bitter as the loss of the right to resent!"
A whirlwind of laughter, so loud that it drowned the music of the shrill
violins and thundering drums, echoed through the rooms and shook him
from his reverie.
"They are bons enfants," he thought, with a half smile, as he listened;
"they are more honest in their mirth, as in their wrath, than we ever
were in that old world of mine."
Amid the shouts, the crash, the tumult, the gay, ringing voice of
Cigarette rose distinct. She had apparently paused in her dancing to
exchange one of those passes of arms which were her specialty, in the
Sabir that she, a child of the regiments of Africa, had known as her
mother tongue.
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