“Biribi was always bon enfant,” muttered the listening throng; they forgot their hunger as they heard.

“Ah! he thought more of you than you deserve, you jackals!  I drew him aside into a hole in the rocks out of the heat.  He was dead; he was right.  No man could live, slashed about like that.  The Arbicos had set on him as he went singing along; if he would have given up the brutes and the stores, they would not have harmed him; but that was not Biribi.  I did all I could for him.  Dame!  It was no good.  He lay very still for some minutes with his head on my lap; then he moved restlessly and tossed about.  ‘They will think me so late—­so late,’ he muttered; ’and they are famished by this.  There is that letter, too, from his mother for Petit-Pot-de-Terre; there is all that news from France; I have so much for them, and I shall be so late—­so late!’ All he thought was that he should be so late into camp.  Well, it was all over very soon.  I do not think he suffered; but he was so afraid you should not have the food.  I left him in the cave, and drove the mules on as he asked.  Etoile-Filante had galloped away; have you seen him home?”

There broke once more from the hearkening throng a roar that shook the echoes from the rocks; but it was not now the rage of famished longing, but the rage of the lust for vengeance, and the grief of passionate hearts blent together.  Quick as the lightning flashes, their swords leaped from their scabbards and shook in the sun-lighted air.

“We will avenge him!” they shouted as with one throat, the hoarse cry rolling down the valley like a swell of thunder.  If the bonds of discipline had loosed them, they would have rushed forth on the search and to the slaughter, forgetful of hunger, of heat, of sun-stroke, of self-pity, of all things, save the dead Tringlo, whose only fear in death had been lest they should want and suffer through him.

Their adjutants, alarmed by the tumult, hurried to the spot, fearing a bread riot; for the camp was far from supplies, and had been ill victualed for several days.  They asked rapidly what was the matter.

“Biribi had been killed,” some soldier answered.

“Ah! and the bread not come.”

“Yes, mon adjutant; the bread is there, and Cigarette too.”

“There is no need for me, then,” muttered the adjutant of Zouaves; “the Little One will keep order.”

The Little One had before now quelled a mutiny with her pistol at the ringleader’s forehead, and her brave, scornful words scourging the insubordinates for their dishonor to their arms, for their treason to the Tricolor; and she was equal to the occasion now.  She lifted her right hand.

“We will avenge him.  That is of course.  The Flag of France never hangs idly when there is a brave life’s loss to be reckoned for; I shall know again the cur that fled.  Trust to me, and now be silent.  You bawl out your oath of vengeance, oh, yes!  But you bawled as loud a minute ago for bread.  Biribi loved you better than you deserved.  You deserve nothing; you are hounds, ready to tear for offal to eat as to rend the foe of your dead friend.  Bah!”