The horse was reeking with smoke and foam, and the blood was coursing
from his flanks, as she reached her destination at last, and threw
herself off his saddle as he sank, faint and quivering, to the ground.
Whither she had come was to a fortress where the Marshal of France,
who was the Viceroy of Africa, had arrived that day in his progress
of inspection throughout the provinces. Soldiers clustered round
her eagerly beneath the gates and over the fallen beast; a thousand
questions pouring from their curious tongues. She pointed to the animal
with one hand, to the gaunt pile of stone that bristled with cannon with
the other.
"Have a care of him; and lead me to the chief."
She spoke quietly; but a certain sensation of awe and fear moved those
who heard. She was not the Child of the Army whom they knew so well. She
was a creature, desperate, hard-pressed, mute as death, strong as steel;
above all, hunted by despair.
They hesitated to take her message, to do her bidding. The one whom she
sought was great and supreme here as a king; they dreaded to approach
his staff, to ask his audience.
Cigarette looked at them a moment, then loosened her Cross and held it
out to an adjutant standing beneath the gates.
"Take that to the man who gave it me. Tell him Cigarette waits; and with
each moment that she waits a soldier's life is lost. Go!"
The adjutant took it, and went. Over and over again she had brought
intelligence of an Arab movement, news of a contemplated razzia, warning
of an internal revolt, or tidings of an encounter on the plains, that
had been of priceless value to the army which she served.
Pages:
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827