Once only in her headlong career through the throngs she paused; it
was as one face, on which the strong light of the noontide poured, came
before her. The senseless look changed in her eyes; she wheeled out of
her route, and stopped before the man who had thus arrested her. He was
leaning idly over the stall of a Turkish bazaar, and her hand grasped
his arm before he saw her.
"You have his face!" she muttered. "What are you to him?"
He made no answer; he was too amazed.
"You are of his race," she persisted. "You are brethren by your look.
What are you to him?"
"To whom?"
"To the man who calls himself Louis Victor! A Chasseur of my army!"
Her eyes were fastened entirely on him; keen, ruthless, fierce, in this
moment as a hawk's. He grew pale and murmured an incoherent denial. He
sought to shake her off, first gently, then more rudely; he called her
mad, and tried to fling her from him; but the lithe fingers only wound
themselves closer on his arm.
"Be still--fool!" she muttered; and there was that in the accent that
lent a strange force and dignity in that moment to the careless and
mischievous plaything of the soldiery--force that overcame him, dignity
that overawed him. "You are of his people; you have his eyes, and his
look, and his features. He disowns you, or you him. No matter which.
He is of your blood; and he lies under sentence of death. Do you know
that?"
With a stifled cry, the other recoiled from her; he never doubted that
she spoke the truth; nor could any who had looked upon her face.
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