But to break his word as the price of his
freedom was not possible to his nature or in his creed. This fate was,
in chief, of his own making; he accepted it without rebellion, because
rebellion would have been in this case both cowardice and self-pity.
He was not conscious of any heroism in this; it seemed to him the only
course left to a man who, in losing the position, had not abandoned the
instincts of a gentleman.
The evening wore away, unmeasured by him; the echoes of the soldiers'
mirth came dimly on his ear; the laughter, and the songs, and the music
were subdued into one confused murmur by distance; there was nothing
near him except a few tethered horses, and far way the mounted figure
of the guard who kept watch beyond the boundaries of the encampment. The
fire burned on, for it had been piled high before it was abandoned;
the little white dog of his regiment was curled at his feet; he sat
motionless, sunk in thought, with his head drooped upon his breast. The
voice of Cigarette broke on his musing.
"Beau sire, you are wanted yonder."
He looked up wearily; could he never be at peace? He did not notice
that the tone of the greeting was rough and curt; he did not notice that
there was a stormy darkness, a repressed bitterness, stern and scornful,
on the Little One's face; he only thought that the very dogs were left
sometimes at rest and unchained, but a soldier never.
"You are wanted!" repeated Cigarette, with imperious contempt.
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