taneous as the rising and the
blossoming of some wind-sown, sun-fed flower, there was, in this child
of the battle and the razzia, the spirit of genius, the desire to live
and to die greatly. It was unreasoned on, it was felt, not thought, it
was often drowned in the gaiety of young laughter, and the ribaldry of
military jest, it was often obscured by noxious influence, and stifled
beneath the fumes of lawless pleasure; but there, ever, in the soul and
the heart of Cigarette, dwelt the germ of a pure ambition--the ambition
to do some noble thing for France, and leave her name upon her soldiers'
lips, a watchword and a rallying-cry for evermore. To be for ever a
beloved tradition in the army of her country, to have her name
remembered in the roll-call as "_Mort sur le champ d'honneur_;" to be
once shrined in the love and honour of France, Cigarette--full of the
boundless joys of life that knew no weakness and no pain, strong as the
young goat, happy as the young lamb, careless as the young flower
tossing on the summer breeze--Cigarette would have died contentedly. And
now, living, some measure of this desire had been fulfilled to her, some
breath of this imperishable glory had passed over her. France had heard
the story of Zaraila; from the throne a message had been passed to her;
what was far beyond all else to her, her own Army of Africa had crowned
her, and thanked her, and adored her as with one voice, and wheresoever
she passed the wild cheers rang through the roar of musketry, as through
the silence of sunny air, and throughout the regiments every sword would
have sprung from its scabbard in her defence if she had but lifted her
hand and said one word--"Zaraila!"

The Army looked on her with delight now. In all that mute, still,
immovable mass that stretched out so far, in such gorgeous array, there
was not one man whose eyes did not turn on her, whose pride did not
centre in her--their Little One who was so wholly theirs, and who had
been under the shadow of their flag ever since the curls, so dark now,
had been yellow as wheat in her infancy. The flag had been her shelter,
her guardian, her plaything, her idol; the flutter of the striped folds
had been the first thing at which her childish eyes had laughed; the
preservation of its colours from the sacrilege of an enemy's touch had
been her religion, a religion whose true following was, in her sight,
salvation of the worst and the most worthless life; and that flag