The wretchedness on him seemed more than
he could bear; to know that this man was so near that the sound of
his voice raised could summon him, yet that he must remain as dead to
him--remain as one dead after a craven and treacherous guilt.
He turned suddenly, almost violently, upon Cigarette.
"You have surprised my folly from me; you know my secret so far; but you
are too brave to betray me, you are too generous to tell of this? I can
trust you to be silent?"
Her face flushed scarlet with astonished anger; her little, childlike
form grew instinct with haughty and fiery dignity.
"Monsieur, that question from one soldier of France to another is
insult. We are not dastards!"
There was a certain grave reproach that mingled with the indignant scorn
of the answer, and showed that her own heart was wounded by the doubt,
as well as her military pride by the aspersion. Even amid the conflict
of pain at war in him he felt that, and hastened to soothe it.
"Forgive me, my child; I should not have wronged you with the question.
It is needless, I know. Men can trust you to the death, they say."
"To the death--yes."
The answer was thoughtful, dreamy, almost sad, for Cigarette. His
thoughts were too far from her in their tumult of awakened memories to
note the tone as he went rapidly on:
"You have ingenuity, compassion, tact; you have power here, too, in your
way. For the love of Heaven get me sent out on some duty before dawn!
There is Biribi's murder to be avenged--would they give the errand to
me?"
She thought a moment.
Pages:
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641