generally,
little better. So, they talk of you for the Cross? No soldier ever, of a
surety, more greatly deserved it."

Her eyes gleamed with a luster like the African planets above her; her
face caught all the fire, the light, the illumination of the flames
flashing near her.

"I did nothing," she said curtly. "Any man on the field would have done
the same."

"That is easy to say; not so easy to prove. In all great events there
may be the same strength, courage, and desire to act greatly in those
who follow as in the one that leads; but it is only in that one that
there is also the daring to originate, the genius to seize aright the
moment of action and of success."

Cigarette was a little hero; she was, moreover, a little desperado;
but she was a child in years and a woman at heart, valiant and ruthless
young soldier though she might be. She colored all over her mignonne
face at the words of eulogy from this man whom she had told herself she
hated; her eyes filled; her lips trembled.

"It was nothing" she said softly, under her breath. "I would die twenty
deaths for France."

He looked at her, and for the hour understood her aright; he saw that
there was the love for her country and the power of sacrifice in this
gay-plumaged and capricious little hawk of the desert.

"You have a noble nature, Cigarette," he said, with an earnest regard at
her. "My poor child, if only----" He paused. He was thinking what it
was hard to say to her--if only the accidents of her life had been
different, what beauty, race, and genius might have been developed out
of the untamed, untutored, inconsequent, but glorious nature of the
child-warrior.

As by a fate, unconsciously his pity embittered all the delight his
praise had given, and this implied regret for her stung her as the rend
of the spur a young Arab colt--stung her inwardly into cruel wrath and
pain; outwardly into irony, deviltry, and contemptuous retort.

"Oh! Child, indeed! Was I a child the other day, my good fellow, when I
saved your squadron from being cut to pieces like grass with a scythe?
As for nobility? Pouf! Not much of that in me. I love France--yes. A
soldier always loves his country. She is so brave, too, and so fair, and
so gay. Not like your Albion--if it is yours--who is a great gobemouche
stuffed full of cotton, steaming with fog, clutching gold with one hand
and the Bible with the other, that she may swell her money-bags, and
seem a saint all the sa