Her eyes were directed along the sidewalk, as if searching for some one who should appear at a distance before her. She was scanning the motley crowd to make out the Zouave dresses.
An exclamation at length told that she had discovered them. A group in Oriental garb could be distinguished about a hundred yards ahead of her. In their midst was a man in civilian costume, plainly their prisoner. It was he who had tempted her forth on that perilous promenade.
Whilst her eyes were still on them, they turned suddenly from the street, conducting their captive through a gateway that was guarded by sentinels and surrounded by a crowd of soldiers—Zouaves like themselves.
“Monsieur!” said she, on arriving in front of the entrance, and addressing herself to one of the soldiers, “why has that gentleman been taken prisoner?”
As she spoke in his own tongue the soldier had no difficulty in understanding her.
“Ho—ho!” he said, making her a mock salute, and bending down till his hairy face almost touched her soft rose-coloured cheek, “My pretty white dove with the chevelure d’or, what gentleman are you inquiring about?”
“He who has just been taken in there.”
She pointed to the gateway now closed.
“Parbleu! my little love! that’s no description. A score have been taken in there within the last half-hour—all gentlemen, I have no doubt. At least there were no ladies among them.”
“I mean the one who went in last. There have been none since.”