Others, who knew him
better, thought that it was the loss of his brother-exile which weighed
on him, and made all the scene around him full of pain. None approached
him; but while they feasted in their tents, making the celebration of
Zaraila equal to the Jour de Mazagran, he sat alone over a picket-fire
on the far outskirts of the camp.
His heart was sick within him. To remain here was to risk with every
moment that ordeal of recognition which he so utterly dreaded; and to
flee was to leave his name to the men, with whom he had served so long,
covered with obloquy and odium, buried under all the burning shame and
degradation of a traitor's and deserter's memory. The latter course was
impossible to him; the only alternative was to trust that the vastness
of that great concrete body, of which he was one unit, would suffice
to hide him from the discovery of the friend whose love he feared as he
feared the hatred of no foe. He had not been seen as he had passed the
flag-staff; there was little fear that in the few remaining hours any
chance could bring the illustrious guest of a Marshal to the outpost of
the scattered camp.
Yet he shuddered as he sat in the glow of the fire of pinewood; she was
so near, and he could not behold her!--though he might never see her
face again; though they must pass out of Africa, home to the land that
he desired as only exiles can desire, while he still remained silent,
knowing that, until death should release him, there could be no other
fate for him, save only this one, hard, bitter, desolate, uncompanioned,
unpitied, unrewarded life.
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