Waterbury Democrat., 1901-05-30

Y south The war was almost lat an end for the time. The Arabs were defeated and driven desertward. Hostilities irksome, harassing and an moving, like all guerrilla warfare, would long continue, but peace was virtually established, and Zaraila had been the chief glory that had been added by the campaign to the flag of imperial France. The whole of the army of the south was drawn up on the immense level of the plateau to witness the presentation of the cross of theI Legion of Honor to Cigarette.
 | It was full noon. The sun shone without single cloud on the deep, sparkling azure of the skies. The troops stretched east and west, north and south, formed up in three sides of one vast massive square. The battal- ions of zouaves and of Zephyrs, the brigade of Chasseurs d'Afrique, the squadrons of spahis, the regiments of tirailleurs and Turcos, the batteries of flying artillery, were all massed there, reassembled from the various camps and stations of the southern provinces to do honor to the day, to do honor in especial to one by whom the glory of the tricolor had beer saved unstained.
 Mounted on her own little bright bay, Etoile- Filante, with tricolor ribbons flying from his bridle and among the glossy fringes of his mane, the little one rode among her spahis. A scarlet cap was on her thick, silken curls, t1icolor sash was 'knotted2 round her waist, her wine barrel was slung on her left hip, her pistols thrust in her belt and a light carbine held in her hand, with the butt end resting on her foot. With the sun on her childlille, brunette face, her eyes flashing like brown diamonds in the light and her marvellous horsemanship, showing it's skill in a hundred desinvoltures and daring tricks, the little Friend of the Flag had come hither among her half savage warriors, whose red robes sur rounded her like a sea of blood They loved her, these brutes, whose greed was like the tigers, whose hate was 1 like the devouring flame, and any who should have harmed a single lock of her curling hair would have had the spears of the African Mussulmans bur- fed by the score in his body. Today she was to her wild wolves of Africa what Jeanne of Vancouleurs was to her brethren of France, and today was the crown of her young life. France had heard the story of Zaraila. From tine throne message had been passed to her. What was far beyond all else to her, her own army of Africa had crowned her and thanked her and adored her as with one voice, and wherever she passed the wild cheers rang through the roar of musketry as | through the silence of sunny air, and | throughout the regiments every sword would have sprung from it's scabbard in her defense had she but lifted her hand and said one word-''ZaraiIaw There was not one in all those hosts whose eyes did not turn on her with gratitude and reverence and delight in her as their own.
 Not one, except where her own keen, rapid glance, farseeing as the hawks, lighted on the squadrons of the Chas- seurs d'Afrique and found among their ranks one face, grave weary, medita- tive, with a haze that seemed looking far away from the glittering scene to n grave that lay unseen leagues beyond the rocky ridge.
 A whole army was thinking of her and of her alone, and there was void in her heart, a thorn in her crown, be- cause one among that mighty mass one only-gave her presence little heed, but thought rather of lonely tomb among the desolation of the plains.
 The trumpets sounded; the salvos of artillery pealed out; the lances and the swords were carried up in salute. On to the ground rode the marshal of France, who represented the imperial will and presence, surrounded by his staff, by generals of division and bri- gade, by officers of rank and by some few civilian riders An aid galIoped