Again De Launay was mildly surprised. He had supposed that the loss of the mine would affect her poignantly and yet she was dismissing it more lightly than he could have done had she not been concerned. And in her expression of consideration for him there was a sweetness that stirred him greatly. He lifted his hand to hers where it rested on his shoulder, and she did not withdraw from his touch.
“And yet,” he said, “there is no reason that you should concern yourself lest I act like a desperado. There are those who would say that I merely lived up to my character. The General de Launay you have heard of, I think?”
“I have heard of him as a brave and able man,” answered Solange.
“And as a driver of flesh and blood beyond endurance, a butcher of men. It was so of the colonel, the commandant, the capitaine. And, of the légionnaire, you have heard what has always been heard. We of the Légion are not lap dogs, mademoiselle.” 270
“I do not care,” said Solange.
“And before the Légion, what? There was the cow-puncher, the range bully, the gunman; the swashbuckling flourisher of six-shooters; the notorious Louisiana.”
He heard her breath drawn inward in a sharp hiss. Then, with startling suddenness, her hand was jerked from under his but not before he had sensed an instant chilling of the warm flesh. Wondering, he turned to see her stepping backward in slow, measured steps while her eyes, fixed immovably upon him, blazed with a fell light, mingled of grief, horror and rage. Her features were frozen and pale, like a death mask. The light of the fire struck her hair and seemed to turn it into a wheel of angry flame.
There was much of the roused fury in her and as much of a lost and despairing soul.
“Louisiana!” she gasped. “You! You are Louisiana?” 271