"He is an Antony, then, instead of a Curtius."
"So it seems. At the moment when, with incredible efforts, he had effected the passage of the Moorish camp, and was off like an ostrich for the desert, the firing of the French, who had reached his deira, struck his ear. Back he flew like the lamiel. Twice his horse fell under him dead—twice he was surrounded and seized, and twice, by his wonderful agility, he regained his freedom. At last, perceiving that all was lost, he turned his face again toward the desert, and, for two days and nights, continued his flight. But his heart was behind him. Certain of escape himself, he preferred hopeless captivity with her he loved, and he returned."
"Quite poetical, on my word! Worthy of Sadi, the Arab Petrarch, himself!" said Château-Renaud.
"He is decidedly a great man, that Abd-el-Kader. They say he bears his misfortunes like a philosopher—or, better, a Turk—unalterably mild and dignified, while his wives and his mother wail at his feet. Every morning he reads the Koran to them, and during the orisons all the windows are open, and a large fire blazes in the centre of the room."
"He is a decided godsend to the quidnuncs of Paris."
"So would be a Hottentot, or a North American savage," replied Beauchamp.
"Rather a different affair this from the Ministerial soirée a week ago, I fancy," remarked the editor.
"Rather. I will confess to you, Beauchamp, I attended that soirée from curiosity to see whether M. Guizot retained his habitual placidity of manner amid the clouds every day thickening around him."
"And what was the result?"