Nevertheless, despite her gay contempt for rank, her heart beat fast under its gold-laced packet as she reined up Etoile and saluted.  In that hot, clear sun all the eyes of that immense host were fastened on her, and the hour of her longing desire was come at last.  France had recognized that she had done greatly.  There was a group before her, large and brilliant, but at them Cigarette never looked; what she saw were the faces of her “children,” of men who, in the majority, were old enough to be her grandsires, who had been with her through so many darksome hours, and whose black and rugged features lightened and grew tender whenever they looked upon their Little One.  For the moment she felt giddy with sweet, fiery joy; they were here to behold her thanked in the name of France.

The Marshal, in advance of all his staff, doffed his plumed hat and bowed to his saddle-bow as he faced her.  He knew her well by sight, this pretty child of his Army of Africa, who had, before then, suppressed mutiny like a veteran, and led the charge like a Murat—­this kitten with a lion’s heart, this humming-bird with an eagle’s swoop.

“Mademoiselle,” he commenced, while his voice, well skilled to such work, echoed to the farthest end of the long lines of troops, “I have the honor to discharge to-day the happiest duty of my life.  In conveying to you the expression of the Emperor’s approval of your noble conduct in the present campaign, I express the sentiments of the whole Army.  Your action on the day of Zaraila was as brilliant in conception as it was great in execution; and the courage you displayed was only equaled by your patriotism.  May the soldiers of many wars remember and emulate you.  In the name of France, I thank you.  In the name of the Emperor, I bring to you the Cross of the Legion of Honor.”

As the brief and soldierly words rolled down the ranks of the listening regiments, he stooped forward from the saddle and fastened the red ribbon on her breast; while from the whole gathered mass, watching, hearing, waiting breathlessly to give their tribute of applause to their darling also, a great shout rose as with one voice, strong, full, echoing over and over again across the plains in thunder that joined her name with the name of France and of Napoleon, and hurled it upward in fierce, tumultuous, idolatrous love to those cruel, cloudless skies that shone above the dead.  She was their child, their treasure, their idol, their young leader in war, their young angel in suffering; she was all their own, knowing with them one common mother—­France.  Honor to her was honor to them; they gloried with heart and soul in this bright, young fearless life that had been among them ever since her infant feet had waded through the blood of slaughter-fields, and her infant lips had laughed to see the tricolor float in the sun above the smoke of battle.

And as she heard, her face became very pale, her large eyes grew dim and very soft, her mirthful mouth trembled with the pain of a too intense joy.  She lifted her head, and all the unutterable love she bore her country and her people thrilled through the music of her voice.