“For outlawry and murder,” the General answered abruptly. “And the punishment?”
“Why think more of her?” he suggested, casting away the end of his cigarette. “It is useless to still contemplate marriage, for her freedom is impossible when the punishment for either offence is the guillotine.”
“The guillotine?” I cried, in mad despair. “And your men are dragging her onward—onward across the Desert to a cruel, ignominious, and brutal end?”
“Think of the massacre of Deschanel and his brave Spahis, of the many raids whereby unarmed caravans have been looted, and their owners butchered; think of the hundreds of our men who have been ruthlessly murdered or horribly tortured by the fiendish band under the leadership of this pretty savage! It was her presence, her voice, that urged on the Ennitra to the frightful massacre and awful barbarities after this city had fallen into their hands; and again she commanded her people in their desperate defence of the city when we endeavoured to take the place by surprise.”
“But I tell you the leadership was forced upon her against her will by those ferocious brutes!” I said warmly. “Ah! you do not know her as well as I.”
“We know her quite sufficiently to be aware that her crimes have cost many of our unfortunate comrades their lives, and that the death sentence is the only one that can be passed upon her. The Government are determined the punishment in her case shall be exemplary,” the stern old General answered, turning from me to take a dispatch that had just been brought in by a Spahi messenger.
“Come, old fellow,” Cannier whispered, taking me kindly by the arm and leading me forth into the once-beautiful harem-garden. “Forget this woman. For her it must certainly be either the lunette or La Nouvelle. No effort of yours can ever give her freedom. Besides, think of her past; is she, after all, worth troubling about?”
“Worth troubling about? Yes,” I answered promptly, turning upon him angrily. “Why should you judge her thus? You only know her by the idle and exaggerated gossip of the camp; yet you believe her to be a bloodthirsty harridan, delighting in scenes of massacre and pillage, a woman who regarded every caravan, every Zouave, and every Chasseur as her lawful and natural prey!”
“No, not a harridan by any means!” he exclaimed. “I admit her beauty and grace is unsurpassed. She is by far the most lovely woman I have ever seen—and I have seen a few beauties in my time at Royat, Etretat, Biarritz, and Trouville.”
“I am not discussing her countenance, mon ami” I continued, with perhaps undue warmth. “I am asking why you condemn her. Tell me, have the authorities any direct evidence that she has ever been guilty of murder?”