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. 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.

He rose on the old instinct of obedience.

"For what?"

She stood looking at him without replying; her mouth was tightly shut
in a hard line that pressed inward all its soft and rosy prettiness.
She was seeing how haggard his face was, how heavy his eyes, how full
of fatigue his movements. Her silence recalled him to the memory of the
past day.

"Forgive me, my dear child, if I have seemed without sympathy in all
your honors," he said gently, as he laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Believe me, it was unintentional. No one knows better than I how richly
you deserved them; no one re