The passionate bitterness of just hatred, that he had to
choke down as though it were the infamous instinct of some nameless
crime, was on him.
The moments passed, the hum of the voices floated to his ear; the ladies
of the party lingered by this soldier and by that, buying half the
things in the chamber, filling their hands with all the quaint trifles,
ordering the daggers and the flissas and the ornamented saddles and the
desert skins to adorn their chateaux at home; and raining down on the
troopers a shower of uncounted Napoleons until the Chasseurs, who had
begun to think their trades would take them to Beylick, thought instead
that they had drifted into dreams of El Dorado. He never looked up;
he heard nothing, heeded nothing; he was dreamily wondering whether he
should always be able so to hold his peace, and to withhold his arm,
that he should never strike his tyrant down with one blow, in which all
the opprobrium of years should be stamped out. A voice woke him from his
reverie.
"Are those beautiful carvings yours?"
He looked up, and in the gloom of the alcove where he stood, where
the sun did not stray, and two great rugs of various skins, with some
conquered banners of Bedouins, hung like a black pall, he saw a woman's
eyes resting on him; proud, lustrous eyes, a little haughty, very
thoughtful, yet soft withal, as the deepest hue of deep waters. He bowed
to her with the old grace of manner that had so amused and amazed the
little vivandiere.
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