Over the slope of brown and barren earth that screened the camp from view there came, at the very moment that the ramrods were drawn out with a shrill, sharp ring from the carbine-barrels, a single figure—tall, stalwart, lithe, with the spring of the deerstalker in its rapid step, and the sinew of the northern races in its mold.
Cecil never saw it; he was looking at the east, at the deepening of the morning flush that was the signal of his slaughter, and his head was turned away.
The newcomer went straight to the adjutant in command, and addressed him with brief preface, hurriedly and low.
“Your prisoner is Victor of the Chasseurs?—he is to be shot this morning?”
The officer assented; he suffered the interruption, recognizing the rank of the speaker.
“I heard of it yesterday; I rode all night from Oran. I feel great pity for this man, though he is unknown to me,” the stranger pursued, in rapid, whispered words. “His crime was—”
“A blow to his colonel, monsieur.”
“And there is no possibility of a reprieve?”
“None.”
“May I speak with him an instant? I have heard it said that he is of my country, and of a rank above his standing in his regiment here.”