The thoughts unformed drifted through his mind, half dulled, half sharpened by the deadly pain, and the rush of old brotherly love that had arisen in him as he had seen the face of his friend beside the watch-fire of the French bivouac.  It was hard; it was cruelly hard; he had, after a long and severe conflict, brought himself into contentment with his lot, and taught himself oblivion of the past, and interest in the present, by active duties and firm resolve; he had vanquished all the habits, controlled most of the weaknesses, and banished nearly all the frailties and indulgences of his temperament in the long ordeal of African warfare.  It was cruelly hard that now when he had obtained serenity, and more than half attained forgetfulness, these two—­her face and his—­must come before him; one to recall the past, the other to embitter the future!

As he sat with his head bent down and his forehead leaning on his arm, while the hard biscuit that served for a plate stood unnoticed beside him, with the food that the soldiers had placed on it, he did not hear Cigarette’s step till she touched him on the arm.  Then he looked up; her eyes were looking on him with a tender, earnest pity.

“Hark!  I have done it,” she said gently.  “But it will be an errand very close to death that you must go on—­”

He raised himself erect, eagerly.

“No matter that!  Ah, mademoiselle, how I thank you!”

“Chut!  I am no Paris demoiselle!” said Cigarette, with a dash of her old acrimony.  “Ceremony in a camp—­pouf!  You must have been a court chamberlain once, weren’t you?  Well, I have done it.  Your officers were talking yonder of a delicate business; they were uncertain who best to employ.  I put in my speech—­it was dead against military etiquette, but I did it.  I said to M. le General:  ’You want the best rider, the most silent tongue, and the surest steel in the squadrons?  Take Bel-a-faire-peur, then.’  ‘Who is that?’ asked the general; he would have sent out of camp anybody but Cigarette for the interruption.  ‘Mon General,’ said I, ’the Arabs asked that, too, the other day, at Zaraila.’  ‘What!’ he cried, ’the man Victor—­who held the ground with his Chasseurs?  I know—­a fine soldier.  M. le Colonel, shall we send him?’ The Black Hawk had scowled thunder on you; he hates you more still since that affair of Zaraila, especially because the general has reported your conduct with such praise that they cannot help but promote you.  Well, he had looked thunder, but now he laughed.  ’Yes, mon General,’ he answered him, ’take him, if you like.  It is fifty to one whoever goes on that business will not come back alive, and you will rid me of the most insolent fine gentleman in my squadrons.’  The general hardly heard him; he was deep in thought; but he asked a good deal about you from the Hawk, and Chateauroy spoke for your fitness for the errand they are going to send you on, very truthfully, for a wonder.  I don’t know why; but he wants you to be sent, I think; most likely that you may be cut to pieces.  And so they will send for you in a minute.  I have done it as you wished.”