And now, living, some
measure of this desire had been fulfilled to her, some breath of this
imperishable glory had passed over her. France had heard the story of
Zaraila; from the Throne a message had been passed to her; what was
far beyond all else to her, her own Army of Africa had crowned her,
and thanked her, and adored her as with one voice, and wheresoever she
passed the wild cheers rang through the roar of musketry, as through
the silence of sunny air, and throughout the regiments every sword would
have sprung from its scabbard in her defense if she had but lifted her
hand and said one word--"Zaraila!"
The Army looked on her with delight now. In all that mute, still,
immovable mass that stretched out so far, in such gorgeous array, there
was not one man whose eyes did not turn on her, whose pride did not
center in her--their Little One, who was so wholly theirs, and who had
been under the shadow of their Flag ever since the curls, so dark now,
had been yellow as wheat in her infancy. There was not one in all those
hosts whose eyes did not turn on her with gratitude, and reverence, and
delight in her as their own.
Not one; except where her own keen, rapid glance, far-seeing as the
hawk's, lighted on the squadrons of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, and found
among their ranks one face, grave, weary, meditative, with a gaze that
seemed looking far away from the glittering scene to a grave that lay
unseen leagues beyond, behind the rocky ridge.
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