“Hate!—no—no. Here am I,” she thought, “Who always hated the enemy,—here am I—talking with one of them—and—and not disliking to talk! And—and Tony,” she said, slyly, “that flower you gave me—I have it now.”
Whereupon and thereupon he clasped her to his heart like a man.
“Ho—ho-ho—by the lock of a musket,” said Sergeant Sulpice, coming up in time to witness this delightful embrace. “The Tyrolese, who just now escaped!”
“Sergeant—I’m Marie’s husband’s self.”
“Traitor!”
“Tut—tut—tut—sergeant,” said the little vivandiere, coming before Marie’s husband’s self—like a bastion—“qui-i-i-iet.”
“I say Marie is already promised to the bravest in our ranks.”
“Pooh! a girl can’t marry her own father, you know. Besides, your own words prove Tony’s right. You say I’m promised to the bravest man in the regiment,—well, he’s of the regiment—and was either of you so brave as to save my life?”
“Good—Marie—good!”
“Si-i-i-i-ilence—private!”