The cry of command pealed out upon the silence in the voice that the Army of Africa loved as the voice of their Little One.  And the cry came too late; the volley was fired, the crash of sound thrilled across the words that bade them pause, the heavy smoke rolled out upon the air; the death that was doomed was dealt.

But beyond the smoke-cloud he staggered slightly, and then stood erect still, almost unharmed, grazed only by some few of the balls.  The flash of fire was not so fleet as the swiftness of her love; and on his breast she threw herself, and flung her arms about him, and turned her head backward with her old, dauntless, sunlit smile as the balls pierced her bosom, and broke her limbs, and were turned away by the shield of warm young life from him.

Her arms were gliding from about his neck, and her shot limbs were sinking to the earth as he caught her up where she dropped to his feet.

“O God! my child!  They have killed you!”

He suffered more, as the cry broke from him, than if the bullets had brought him that death which he saw at one glance had stricken down forever all the glory of her childhood, all the gladness of her youth.

She laughed—­all the clear, imperious, arch laughter of her sunniest hours unchanged.

“Chut!  It is the powder and ball of France!  That does not hurt.  If it was an Arbico’s bullet now!  But wait!  Here is the Marshal’s order.  He suspends your sentence; I have told him all.  You are safe!—­do you hear?—­you are safe!  How he looks!  Is he grieved to live?  Mes Francais!  Tell him clearer than I can tell—­here is the order.  The General must have it.  No—­not out of my hand till the General sees it.  Fetch him, some of you—­fetch him to me.”

“Great Heavens!  You have given your life for mine!”

The words broke from him in an agony as he held her upward against his heart, himself so blind, so stunned, with the sudden recall from death to life, and with the sacrifice whereby life was thus brought to him, that he could scarce see her face, scarce hear her voice, but only dimly, incredulously, terribly knew, in some vague sense, that she was dying, and dying thus for him.

She smiled up in his eyes, while even in that moment, when her life was broken down like a wounded bird’s, and the shots had pierced through from her shoulder to her bosom, a hot, scarlet flush came over her cheeks as she felt his touch, and rested on his heart.

“A life! what is it to give?  We hold it in our hands every hour, we soldiers, and toss it in change for a draught of wine.  Lay me down on the ground—­at your feet—­so!  I shall live longest that way, and I have much to tell.  How they crowd around me!  Mes soldats, do not make that grief and that rage over me.  They are sorry they fired; that is foolish.  They were only doing their duty, and they could not hear me in time.”