"I will press nothing more on you. But--as an obligation
to me--can you find no way in which a rouleau of gold would benefit your
men?"
"No way that I can take it for them. But, if you care indeed to do them
a charity, a little wine, a little fruit, a few flowers (for there are
those among them who love flowers), sent to the hospital, will bring
many benedictions on your name, madame. They lie in infinite misery
there!"
"I will remember," she said simply, while a thoughtful sadness passed
over her brilliant face. "Adieu, M. le Caporal; and if you should think
better of your choice, and will allow your name to be mentioned by me to
his Majesty, send me word through my people. There is my card."
The carriage whirled away down the crooked street. He stood under the
tawny awning of the Moorish house, with the thin, glazed card in his
hand. On it was printed:
"Mme. la Princesse Corona d'Amague,
"Hotel Corona, Paris."
In the corner was written, "Villa Aiaussa, Algiers." He thrust it in the
folds of his sash, and turned within.
"Do you know her?" he asked Ben Arsli.
The old man shook his head.
"She is the most beautiful of thy many fair Frankish women. I never saw
her till to-day. But listen here. Touching these ivory toys--if thou
does not bring henceforth to me all the work in them that thou doest,
thou shalt never come here more to meet the light of her eyes."
Cecil smiled and pressed the Moslem's hand.
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