It touched her to great pity; although proud with too intense a pride, her nature was exceedingly generous, and, when once moved, deeply compassionate.  The unerring glance of a woman habituated to the first society of Europe had told her that the accent, the bearing, the tone, the features of this soldier, who only asked of life “oblivion,” were those of one originally of gentle blood; and the dignity and patience of his acceptance of the indignities which his present rank entailed on him had not escaped her any more than the delicate beauty of his face as she had seen it, weary, pale, and shadowed with pain, in the unconscious revelation of sleep.

“How bitter his life must be!” she mused.  “When Philip comes, perhaps he will show some way to aid him.  And yet—­who can serve a man who only desires to be forgotten?”

Then, with a certain impatient sense of some absurd discrepancy, of some unseemly occupation, in her thus dwelling on the wishes and the burdens of a sous-officier of Light Cavalry, she laughed a little, and put the White Chief back once more in his place.  Yet even as she set the king among his mimic forces, the very carvings themselves served to retain their artist in her memory.

There was about them an indescribable elegance, an exceeding grace and beauty, which spoke of a knowledge of art and of refinement of taste far beyond those of a mere military amateur in the one who had produced them.

“What could bring a man of that talent, with that address, into the ranks?” she mused.  “Persons of good family, of once fine position, come here, they say, and live and die unrecognized under the Imperial flag.  It is usually some dishonor that drives them out of their own worlds; it may be so with him.  Yet he does not look like one whom shame has touched; he is proud still—­prouder than he knows.  More likely it is the old, old story—­a high name and a narrow fortune—­the ruin of thousands!  He is French, I suppose; a French aristocrat who has played au roi depouille, most probably, and buried himself and his history forever beneath those two names that tell one nothing—­Louis Victor.  Well, it is no matter of mine.  Very possibly he is a mere adventurer with a good manner.  This army here is a pot-pourri, they say, of all the varied scoundrelisms of Europe!”

She left the chess-table and went onward to the dressing and bath and bed chambers, which opened in one suite from her boudoir, and resigned herself to the hands of her attendants for her dinner toilet.

The Moslem had said aright of her beauty; and now, as her splendid hair was unloosened and gathered up afresh with a crescent-shaped comb of gold that was not brighter than the tresses themselves, the brilliant, haughty, thoughtful face was of a truth, as he had said, the fairest that had ever come from the Frankish shores to the hot African sea-board.  Many beside the old Moslem had thought it “the fairest that e’er the sun shone on,” and held one grave, lustrous glance of the blue imperial eyes above aught else on earth.  Many had loved her—­all without return.  Yet, although only twenty years had passed over her proud head, the Princesse Corona d’Amague had been wedded and been widowed.