The soldier, an automaton in passive compliance, placed him where he commanded the outlook cityward; the open plain, protected by the breast-works of mountains; the distant spires trembling on the horizon; the lakes which once marked the Western Venice, a city of perfume and song. Striking a body of water, the sun converted it into a glowing shield, a silver escutcheon of the land of silver, and, in contrast with this polished splendor, the shadows, trailing 460 on the far-away mountains, were soft, deep and velvety. But the freedom of the outlook afforded the wounded man little comfort.
“The storm!” he said.
A change passed over his face, as of a shadow drawn before it. He groped helplessly with his hand.
“Feel in my burnoose, Ernest. A bag––around my neck––open it!”
Saint-Prosper thrust his hand within the coat, shuddering at the contact with the ebbing life’s blood, and drew forth a leather bag which he placed in the other’s trembling fingers. With an effort, breathing laboriously, and staring hard, as though striving to penetrate a gathering film, the wounded man finally managed to display the contents of the bag, emptying them in his palm, where they glinted and gleamed in the sun’s rays. Sapphires, of delicate blue; emeralds with vitreous luster; opals of brilliant iridescence––but, above all, a ruby of perfect color and extraordinary size, cut en cabachon, and exhibiting a marvelous star of many rays; the ruby of Abd-el-Kader!
With a venal expression of delight, the gunner regarded the contents of the bag, feeling the gems one by one. “The rarest stone––from the Sagyin hills, Ernest!” he whispered, as his trembling fingers played with the ruby.
But even as he fondled it, a great pain crossed his breast; he gripped his shoulder tight with his free hand, clutching the precious stones hard in his clenched fist. Thus he remained, how long the other 461 never knew, panting, growing paler, as the veins that carried life to his heart were being slowly emptied.
His head dropped. “How dark!” he murmured. “Like a m’chacha where the hashish-smokers dream!”
The younger brother thought his energy was spent when he looked up sharply.
“The lamp’s out, you Devil Jew!” he cried. “The pipe, too––spawn of hell!”