The drink had brightened his eyes, brought a warm flush to the sun-bronze of his cheek, lent swiftness to his tongue. He was talking brilliantly, matching epigrams with the Great Gaines, shrewdly poking good-natured fun at the stolid and stupid mayor, holding his and the near-by tables in spell with reminiscences in which so many of them shared.

"So! you heed the heat so little, you give up your turn of water to a drummer, they say?" The Chasseur gave the salute with a calm deference. A faint flush passed over the sun-bronze of his forehead. He had thought the Sidney-like sacrifice had been unobserved. "The drummer was but a child, mon Commandant."

Before she had time to cry out, however, she was caught up, and her father's voice, hoarse and frightened, asked quickly, "Are you hurt, love? Are you hurt?" As she looked up into his anxious face, pale beneath the sun-bronze, Hope fully realized how deeply her father loved her, and answered in a much subdued voice, "No, papa not much.

It may be a weakness of mine that I have an incisive way of speech; but I threw all restraint to the winds and cut and slashed until the whole man of him was snarling. The dark sun-bronze of his face went black with wrath, his eyes were ablaze. There was no clearness or sanity in them nothing but the terrific rage of a madman. It was the wolf in him that I saw, and a mad wolf at that.