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Updated: May 20, 2025
You shall see me at your barracks with the morning." "Ah, ah! monsieur!" cried the Chasseur eagerly, and a little annoyed. "What warrant have we that you will not dispute the decree of the dice, and go off to your favorites, the Arabs?" He turned back and looked full in Chanrellon's face his own eyes a little surprised, and infinitely weary. "What warrant? My promise."
We are all quoting our tempters to-night. Give us your story, mon brave!" "Monsieur, you have it in the folios, as well as my sword could write it." "Good, good!" muttered the listening General. The soldier-like answer pleased him, and he looked attentively at the giver of it. Chanrellon's brown eyes flashed a bright response.
Then, as the bitter remembrance of the difference in rank and station between them flashed on his memory, he was raising it proudly, deferentially, in the salute of a subordinate to his superior, when Chanrellon's grasp closed on it readily. The victim of Coeur d'Acier was of as gallant a temper as ever blent the reckless condottiere with the thoroughbred noble.
The Frenchmen laughed; they could take a jest good-humoredly, and alone amid so many of them, he was made sacred at once by the very length of odds against him. They rattled the boxes and threw again Chanrellon's was three; his two. "Ah!" he murmured. "Right kicks the beam and loses; it always does, poor devil!"
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