But who is this man for whom you claim so
much?"
"Who is he?" echoed Cigarette, with all her fiery disdain for authority
ablaze once more like brandy in a flame. "Oh, ha! Napoleon Premier would
not have left his Marshals to ask that! He is the finest soldier in
Africa, if it be possible for one to be finer than another where all
are so great. They know that; they pick him out for all the dangerous
missions. But the Black Hawk hates him, and so France never hears the
truth of all that he does. I tell you, if the Emperor had seen him as I
saw him on the field of Zaraila, his would have been the Cross, and not
mine."
"You are generous, my Little One."
"No; I am just."
Her brave eyes glowed in the sun, her voice rang as clear as a bell. She
raised her head proudly and glanced down the line of her army. She was
just--that was the one virtue in Cigarette's creed without which you
were poltroon, or liar, or both.
She alone knew what neglect, what indifference, what unintentional, but
none the less piercing, insults she had to avenge; she alone knew of
that pain with which she had heard the name of his patrician rival
murmured in delirious slumber after Zaraila; she alone knew of that
negligent caress of farewell with which her lips had been touched as
lightly as his hand caressed a horse's neck or a bird's wing. But these
did not weigh with her one instant to make her withhold the words that
she deemed deserved; these did not balance against him one instant the
pique and the pain of her own heart, in opposition to the due of his
courage and his fortitude.
Pages:
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741