he wretchedness on him seemed more than
he could bear; to know that this man was so near that the sound of
his voice raised could summon him, yet that he must remain as dead to
him--remain as one dead after a craven and treacherous guilt.

He turned suddenly, almost violently, upon Cigarette.

"You have surprised my folly from me; you know my secret so far; but you
are too brave to betray me, you are too generous to tell of this? I can
trust you to be silent?"

Her face flushed scarlet with astonished anger; her little, childlike
form grew instinct with haughty and fiery dignity.

"Monsieur, that question from one soldier of France to another is
insult. We are not dastards!"

There was a certain grave reproach that mingled with the indignant scorn
of the answer, and showed that her own heart was wounded by the doubt,
as well as her military pride by the aspersion. Even amid the conflict
of pain at war in him he felt that, and hastened to soothe it.

"Forgive me, my child; I should not have wronged you with the question.
It is needless, I know. Men can trust you to the death, they say."

"To the death--yes."

The answer was thoughtful, dreamy, almost sad, for Cigarette. His
thoughts were too far from her in their tumult of awakened memories to
note the tone as he went rapidly on:

"You have ingenuity, compassion, tact; you have power here, too, in your
way. For the love of Heaven get me sent out on some duty before dawn!
There is Biribi's murder to be avenged--would they give the errand to
me?"

She thought a moment.

"We will see," she said curtly. "I think I can do it. But go back, or
you will be missed. I will come to you soon."

She left him, then, rapidly; drawing her hand quickly out of the clasp
of his.

Cigarette felt her heart aching to its core for the sorrow of this man
who was nothing to her. He did not know what she had done for him in his
suffering and delirium; he did not know how she had watched him all that
night through, when she was weary, and bruised, and thirsting for sleep;
he did not know; he held her hand as one comrade another's, and never
looked to see if her eyes were blue or were black, were laughing or
tear-laden. And yet she felt pain in his pain; she was always giving
her life to his service. Many besides the little Friend of the Flag beat
back as folly the noblest and purest thing in them.

Cecil mechanically returned to the fire at which the men of his tribe
were cooking