The carriage whirled away down the crooked street. He stood under the tawny awning of the Moorish house, with the thin, glazed card in his hand. On it was printed:
“Mme. la Princesse Corona d'Amague,
“Hotel Corona, Paris.”
In the corner was written, “Villa Aiaussa, Algiers.” He thrust it in the folds of his sash, and turned within.
“Do you know her?” he asked Ben Arsli.
The old man shook his head.
“She is the most beautiful of thy many fair Frankish women. I never saw her till to-day. But listen here. Touching these ivory toys—if thou does not bring henceforth to me all the work in them that thou doest, thou shalt never come here more to meet the light of her eyes.”
Cecil smiled and pressed the Moslem's hand.
“I kept them away because you would have given me a hundred piasters for what had not been worth one. As for her eyes, they are stars that shine on another world than an African trooper's. So best!”
Yet they were stars of which he thought more, as he wended his way back to the barracks, than of the splendid constellations of the Algerian evening that shone with all the luster of the day, but with the soft, enchanted light which transfigured sea, and earth, and sky as never did the day's full glow, as he returned to the mechanical duties, to the thankless services, to the distasteful meal, to the riotous mirth, to the coarse comradeship, which seemed to him to-night more bitter than they had ever done since his very identity, his very existence, had been killed and buried past recall, past resurrection, under the kepi d'ordonnance of a Chasseur d'Afrique.