o
not think he suffered; but he was so afraid you should not have the
food. I left him in the cave, and drove the mules on as he asked.
Etoile-Filante had galloped away; have you seen him home?"

There broke once more from the hearkening throng a roar that shook the
echoes from the rocks; but it was not now the rage of famished longing,
but the rage of the lust for vengeance, and the grief of passionate
hearts blent together. Quick as the lightning flashes, their swords
leaped from their scabbards and shook in the sun-lighted air.

"We will avenge him!" they shouted as with one throat, the hoarse
cry rolling down the valley like a swell of thunder. If the bonds of
discipline had loosed them, they would have rushed forth on the search
and to the slaughter, forgetful of hunger, of heat, of sun-stroke, of
self-pity, of all things, save the dead Tringlo, whose only fear in
death had been lest they should want and suffer through him.

Their adjutants, alarmed by the tumult, hurried to the spot, fearing
a bread riot; for the camp was far from supplies, and had been ill
victualed for several days. They asked rapidly what was the matter.

"Biribi had been killed," some soldier answered.

"Ah! and the bread not come."

"Yes, mon adjutant; the bread is there, and Cigarette too."

"There is no need for me, then," muttered the adjutant of Zouaves; "the
Little One will keep order."

The Little One had before now quelled a mutiny with her pistol at the
ringleader's forehead, and her brave, scornful words scourging the
insubordinates for their dishonor to their arms, for their treason to
the Tricolor; and she was equal to the occasion now. She lifted her
right hand.

"We will avenge him. That is of course. The Flag of France never hangs
idly when there is a brave life's loss to be reckoned for; I shall know
again the cur that fled. Trust to me, and now be silent. You bawl out
your oath of vengeance, oh, yes! But you bawled as loud a minute ago for
bread. Biribi loved you better than you deserved. You deserve nothing;
you are hounds, ready to tear for offal to eat as to rend the foe of
your dead friend. Bah!"

The roar of the voices sank somewhat; Cigarette had sprung aloft on a
gun-carriage, and as the sun shone on her face it was brilliant with the
scorn that lashed them like whips.

"Sang de Dieu!" fiercely swore a Zouave. "Hounds, indeed! If it were
anyone but you! When one has had nothing but a snatch of raw bullock's