"Yes, madame, they are mine."
"Ah!--what wonderful skill!"
She took the White King, an Arab Sheik on his charger, in her hand, and
turned to those about her, speaking of its beauties and its workmanship
in a voice low, very melodious, ever so slightly languid, that fell
on Cecil's ear like a chime of long-forgotten music. Twelve years had
drifted by since he had been in the presence of a high-bred woman, and
those lingering, delicate tones had the note of his dead past.
He looked at her; at the gleam of the brilliant hair, at the arch of the
proud brows, at the dreaming, imperial eyes; it was a face singularly
dazzling, impressive, and beautiful at all times; most so of all in
the dusky shadows of the waving desert banners, and the rough, rude,
barbaric life of the Caserne, where a fille de joie or a cantiniere
were all of her sex that was ever seen, and those--poor wretches!--were
hardened, and bronzed, and beaten, and brandy-steeped out of all
likeness to the fairness of women.
"You have an exquisite art. They are for sale?" she asked him. She spoke
with the careless, gracious courtesy of a grande dame to a Corporal
of Chasseurs; looking little at him, much at the Kings and their mimic
hosts of Zouaves and Bedouins.
"They are at your service, madame."
"And their price?" She had been purchasing largely of the men on all
sides as she swept down the length of the Chambre and she drew out
some French banknotes as she spoke.
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