sacred the hands which, when nervous with youth,
had borne the standard of the Republic victorious against the gathered
Teuton host in the Thermopylae of Champagne; sacred the ears which, when
quick to hear, had heard the thunder of Arcola, of Lodi, of Rivoli, and,
above even the tempest of war, the clear, still voice of Napoleon;
sacred the lips which, when their beard was dark in the fulness of
manhood, had quivered, as with a woman's weeping, at the farewell in the
spring night in the moonlit Cour des Adieux.

Cigarette had a religion of her own; and followed it more closely than
most disciples follow other creeds.

* * *

The way was long; the road ill-formed, leading for the most part across
a sere and desolate country, with nothing to relieve its barrenness
except long stretches of the great spear-headed reeds. At noon the heat
was intense; the little cavalcade halted for half an hour under the
shade of some black towering rocks which broke the monotony of the
district, and commenced a more hilly and more picturesque portion of the
country. Cigarette came to the side of the temporary ambulance in which
Cecil was placed. He was asleep--sleeping for once peacefully with
little trace of pain upon his features, as he had slept the previous
night. She saw that his face and chest had not been touched by the
stinging insect-swarm; he was doubly screened by a shirt hung above him
dexterously on some bent sticks.

"Who has done that?" thought Cigarette. As she glanced round she
saw--without any linen to cover him, Zackrist had reared himself up and
leaned slightly forward over against his comrade. The shirt that
protected Cecil was his; and on his own bare shoulders and mighty chest
the tiny armies of the flies and gnats were fastened, doing their will
uninterrupted.

As he caught her glance, a sullen ruddy glow of shame shone through the
black hard skin of his sunburnt visage--shame to which he had been never
touched when discovered in any one of his guilty and barbarous actions.

"_Dame!_" he growled savagely; "he gave me his wine; one must do
something in return. Not that I feel the insects--not I; my skin is
leather, see you; they can't get through it; but his is _peau de
femme_--white and soft--bah! like tissue paper!"

"I see, Zackrist; you are right. A French soldier can never take a
kindness from an English fellow without outrunning him in generosity.
Look--here is some drink for you."