“He is too good a soldier to die; one must do it for France,” she said to herself, in a kind of self-apology.  And as she did it, and bound the lance-gash close, and bathed his breast, his forehead, his hair, his beard, free from the sand and the powder and the gore, a thousand changes swept over her mobile face.  It was one moment soft, and flushed, and tender as passion; it was the next jealous, fiery, scornful, pale, and full of impatient self-disdain.

He was nothing to her—­morbleu!  He was an aristocrat, and she was a child of the people.  She had been besieged by dukes and had flouted princes; she had borne herself in such gay liberty, such vivacious freedom, such proud and careless sovereignty—­bah! what was it to her whether this man lived or died?  If she saved him, he would give her a low bow as he thanked her; thinking all the while of Milady!

And yet she went on with her work.

Cecil had been stunned by a stroke from his horse’s hoof as the poor beast fell beneath and rolled over him.  His wounds were light—­marvelously so, for the thousand strokes that had been aimed at him; but it was difficult to arouse him from unconsciousness, and his face was white as death where he lay on the heap of dry reeds and grasses.  She began to feel fear of that lengthened syncope; a chill, tight, despairing fear that she had never known in her life before.  She knelt silent a moment, drawing through her hand the wet locks of his hair with the bright threads of gold gleaming in it.

Then she started up, and, leaving him, found a match, and lighted the died-out wood afresh; the fire soon blazed up, and she warmed above it the soup that had grown cold, poured into it some red wine that was near, and forced some, little by little, down his throat.  It was with difficulty at first that she could pass any though his tightly locked teeth; but by degrees she succeeded, and, only half-conscious still, he drank it faster; the heat and the strength reviving him as its stimulant warmed his veins.  His eyes did not unclose, but he stirred, moved his limbs, and, with some muttered words she could not hear, drew a deeper breath and turned.

“He will sleep now—­he is safe,” she thought to herself, while she stood watching him with a curious conflict of pity, impatience, anger, and relief at war within her.

Bah!  Why was she always doing good services to this man, who only cared for the blue, serene eyes of a woman who would never give him aught except pain?  Why should she take such care to keep the fire of vitality alight in him, when it had been crushed out in thousands as good as he, who would have no notice save a hasty thrust into the earth; no funeral chant except the screech of the carrion-birds?

Cigarette had been too successful in her rebellion against all weakness, and was far too fiery a young warrior to find refuge or consolation in the poet’s plea,

“How is it under our control to love or not to love?”