ove that woman whose deep, proud eyes had dwelt with such
serene pity upon him.

Yet his hand clinched on the straw as it had clinched once when the
operator's knife had cut down through the bones of his breast to reach
a bullet that, left in his chest, would have been death. If in the sight
of men he had only stood in the rank that was his by birthright, he
could have striven for--it might be that he could have roused--some
answering passion in her. But that chance was lost to him forever. Well,
it was but one thing more that was added to all that he had of his own
will given up. He was dead; he must be content, as the dead must be,
to leave the warmth of kisses, the glow of delight, the possession of
a woman's loveliness, the homage of men's honor, the gladness of
successful desires, to those who still lived in the light he had
quitted. He had never allowed himself the emasculating indulgence of
regret; he flung it off him now.

Flick-Flack--coiled asleep in his bosom--thrilled, stirred, and growled.
He rose, and, with the little dog under his arm, looked out from the
canvas. He knew that the most vigilant sentry in the service had not the
instinct for a foe afar off that Flick-Flack possessed. He gazed keenly
southward, the poodle growling on; that cloud so dim, so distant, caught
his sight. Was it a moving herd, a shifting mist, a shadow-play between
the night and dawn?

For a moment longer he watched it; then, what it was he knew, or felt
by such strong instinct as makes knowledge; and, like the blast of a
clarion, his alarm rang over the unarmed and slumbering camp.

An instant, and the hive of men, so still, so motionless, broke into
violent movement; and from the tents the half-clothed sleepers poured,
wakened, and fresh in wakening as hounds. Perfect discipline did the
rest. With marvelous, with matchless swiftness and precision they
harnessed and got under arms. They were but fifteen hundred or so in
all--a single squadron of Chasseurs, two battalions of Zouaves, half a
corps of Tirailleurs, and some Turcos; only a branch of the main body,
and without artillery. But they were some of the flower of the army of
Algiers, and they roused in a second, with the vivacious ferocity of the
bounding tiger, with the glad, eager impatience for the slaughter of
the unloosed hawk. Yet, rapid in its wondrous celerity as their united
action was, it was not so rapid as the downward sweep of the war-cloud
that came so near,