"It is like the
brooks--like the birds--like the winds in the leaves."
He was but half conscious; but the lulling of that gliding voice brought
him peace. And Cigarette sung on, only moving to reach him some fresh
touch of ice, while time traveled on, and the first afternoon shadows
crept across the bare floor. Every now and then, dimly through the
openings of the windows, came a distant roll of drums, a burst of
military music, an echo of the laughter of a crowd; and then her head
went up eagerly, an impatient shade swept across her expressive face.
It was a fete-day in Algiers; there were flags and banners fluttering
from the houses; there were Arab races and Arab maneuvers; there was a
review of troops for some foreign general; there were all the mirth and
the mischief that she loved, and that never went on without her; and she
knew well enough that from mouth to mouth there was sure to be asking,
"Mais ou done est Cigarette?" Cigarette, who was the Generalissima of
Africa!
But still she never moved; though all her vivacious life was longing to
be out and in their midst, on the back of a desert horse, on the head
of a huge drum, perched on the iron support of a high-hung lantern,
standing on a cannon while the Horse Artillery swept full gallop, firing
down a volley of argot on the hot homage of a hundred lovers, drinking
creamy liqueurs and filling her pockets with bonbons from handsome
subalterns and aids-de-camp, doing as she had done ever since she could
remember her first rataplan.
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