The Grey Cloak - Page 132/256

Presently the Chevalier bowed his head upon the cold iron of the

cannon. The crimson west grew fainter and fainter; and the evening

breeze came up and stirred the Company's flags on the warehouses far

below.

Suddenly the Chevalier lifted his head. He was still an officer and a

gentleman. He would stand taller, look into each eye and dare with his

own. It was not what he had been, nor what had been done to him; it

was what he was, would be and do. If every hand was to be against his,

so be it. D'Hérouville? Some day that laugh should cost him dear.

The vicomte? What was his misfortune to the vicomte that he should

pick a quarrel on his account? Was he a gallant fellow like Victor?

He would learn.

He put on his hat. It was dark. Lights began to flicker in the fort

and the château. The resolution seemed to give him new strength, and

he squared his shoulders, took in deep breaths, entered the officers'

mess and dined.

The men about him were for the most part manly men, brave, open-handed,

rough outwardly and soft within. And as they saw him take his seat

quietly, a sparkle of admiration gleamed from every eye. The vicomte

and Victor, both out on parole, took their plates and glasses and

ranged alongside of the Chevalier. In France they would have either

left the room or cheered him; as it was, they all finished the evening

meal as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

So the Chevalier won his first victory.