She raised an imperious hand.  “Cinders, salute!” And into Cinders’ ear she whispered, “They are only French, chappie, but you mustn’t mind.”

And Cinders, quite unconcerned, obeyed his mistress’s behest and lifted a rigid paw to his head.

A murmur of appreciation ran through the ranks.  The grins widened.  One boy, with bold admiration for the petite Anglaise in his black eyes, raised his hand abruptly and saluted in return.  Every man who followed did likewise, and Chris was enchanted.  Mademoiselle Gautier would have been horrified had she seen her frank nods of acknowledgment, but mercifully Fate spared her this.

Behind the last line of marching men came a trim young officer.  His sword clanked at his heels.  He swung along with a free swagger, head up, shoulders back, eyes fixed straight before him.  A gallant specimen was he, for though of inconsiderable height, he was well made and obviously of athletic build.  His thoughts were evidently far away, his handsome, boyish face so preoccupied that it had the look of a face in a picture, patrician, aloof, immobile.

But a sudden glimpse of the girl at the gate—­the child with the shining hair—­brought him back in a fraction of time, transformed him utterly.  Recognition, vivid surprise, undoubted pleasure, flashed over his face.  With an eager smile, he paused, clicked his heels together, saluted.

She extended an eager hand—­her left; Cinders monopolized her right.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you!  I didn’t know you were a soldier!”

He took the hand over the gate, stooped and kissed it.  “But I am delighted, mademoiselle!” he said.

Cinders was also delighted, and struggled with yelps of welcome to reach him.  He stood up, laughing, and patted the little creature’s head.

“And the foot?” he questioned.

“Much better,” said Chris.  “I am going down to the shore presently.  I wish you could come too.”

He smiled and shook his head, with a glance after his men retreating up the hill towards the fort.  “I wish it also, mademoiselle, but—­”

“Couldn’t you?” begged Chris.  “This afternoon!  Just for a little while!  There’s only Cinders and me.”

“Et Mademoiselle la gouvernante—­”

“She is looking after the boys, and they are ill,” Chris explained cheerfully.  “You might come.  I’m wanting someone to talk to rather badly.”

The young officer hesitated.  The blue eyes were very persuasive.

“I would ask you to come in to tea afterwards,” she said, “only Mademoiselle is so silly—­quite cracked, in fact, on some points.  But that needn’t prevent your coming down to the shore for a little to play with Cinders and me.  You will, won’t you?  Say you will!”

“I will, mademoiselle.”  His surrender was abrupt, and quite decisive.

She beamed upon him.  “We will play at sand-pictures.  You know that game, I expect.  One draws and the other has to guess what it’s meant for.  I shall look out for you, then.  Good-bye!”