Cinders licked the animated face so near his own. When not drawn by his
one particular vice, he was always ready to enter into any little game
that his mistress might devise. He watched the oncoming soldiers with
interest, a slight frown between his brows.

The soldiers were interested also. Chris of the merry eyes was not a
spectacle to pass unheeding. She smiled upon them--there were about forty
of them--with the simplicity of a child.

Rhythmically the blue and red uniforms began to swing past. Their wearers
stared and grinned at the smiling little _Anglaise_ who was so naively
pleased to see them.

She raised an imperious hand. "Cinders, salute!" And into Cinders' ear
she whispered, "They are only French, chappie, but you mustn't mind."

And Cinders, quite unconcerned, obeyed his mistress's behest and lifted a
rigid paw to his head.

A murmur of appreciation ran through the ranks. The grins widened. One
boy, with bold admiration for the _petite Anglaise_ in his black eyes,
raised his hand abruptly and saluted in return. Every man who followed
did likewise, and Chris was enchanted. Mademoiselle Gautier would have
been horrified had she seen her frank nods of acknowledgment, but
mercifully Fate spared her this.

Behind the last line of marching men came a trim young officer. His sword
clanked at his heels. He swung along with a free swagger, head up,
shoulders back, eyes fixed straight before him. A gallant specimen was
he, for though of inconsiderable height, he was well made and obviously