But the drums rolled out their long, deep thunder over the water; and
the shot-torn standards fluttered gayly in the breeze blowing from the
west; and the clear, full music of the French bands echoed away to
the dim, distant, terrible south, where the desert-scorch and the
desert-thirst had murdered their bravest and best--and the Army was en
fete. En fete, for it did honor to its darling. Cigarette received the
Cross.
Mounted on her own little, bright bay, Etoile-Filante, with tricolor
ribbons flying from his bridle and among the glossy fringes of his mane,
the Little One rode among her Spahis. A scarlet kepi was set on her
thick, silken curls, a tricolor sash was knotted round her waist,
her wine-barrel was slung on her left hip, her pistols thrust in her
ceinturon, and a light carbine held in her hand with the butt-end
resting on her foot. With the sun on her childlike brunette face,
her eyes flashing like brown diamonds in the light, and her marvelous
horsemanship showing its skill in a hundred daring tricks, the little
Friend of the Flag had come hither among her half-savage warriors, whose
red robes surrounded her like a sea of blood.
And on a sea of blood she, the Child of War, had floated; never sinking
in that awful flood, but buoyant ever above its darkest waves; catching
ever some ray of sunlight upon her fair young head, and being oftentimes
like a star of hope to those over whom its dreaded waters closed.
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