Meanwhile, where she had left him among the stones of the ruined mosque,the Chasseur, whom they nicknamed Bel-a-faire-peur, in a double sense,because of his "woman's face," as Tata Leroux termed it, and becauseof the terror his sword had become through North Africa, sat motionlesswith his right arm resting on his knee, and his spurred heel thrust intothe sand; the sun shining down unheeded in its fierce, burning glare onthe chestnut masses of his beard and the bright glitter of his uniform.
He was a dashing cavalry soldier, who had had a dozen wounds cut overhis body by the Bedouin swords, in many and hot skirmishes; who hadwaited through sultry African nights for the lion's tread, and hadfought the desert-king and conquered; who had ridden a thousand milesover the great sand waste, and the boundless arid plains, and sleptunder the stars with the saddle beneath his head, and his rifle in hishand, all through the night; who had served, and served well, in fierce,arduous, unremitting work, in trying campaigns and in closediscipline; who had blent the verve, the brilliance, the daring, theeat-drink-and-enjoy-for-to-morrow-we-die of the French Chasseur, withsomething that was very different, and much more tranquil.
Yet, though as bold a man as any enrolled in the French Service, he satalone here in the shadow of the column, thoughtful, motionless, lost insilence.
In his left hand was a Galignani, six months old, and his eye rested ona line in the obituary:
"On the 10th ult., at Royallieu, suddenly, the Right Hon. Denzil,Viscount Royallieu; aged 90."