form. The blonde fur of her robe shaded, with delicate gradations, to
the dead-white tones of her furry thighs; the vivid sunshine brought out
in its fulness the brilliancy of this living gold and its variegated
brown spots with indescribable lustre.

The Provencal and the panther looked at each other with a look pregnant
with meaning. She trembled with delight (the coquettish creature) when
she felt her friend scratch the strong bones of her skull with his
nails. Her eyes glittered like lightning-flashes--then she closed them
tightly.

"She has a soul!" cried he, looking at the stillness of this queen of
the sands, golden like them, white as their waving light, solitary and
burning as themselves.

(Here the narrative breaks off somewhat abruptly and continues in the
first person--that of the soldier.)

"Suddenly she turned on me in a fury, seizing my thigh with her sharp
teeth, and yet (I thought of this afterwards) not cruelly. I imagined
that she intended devouring me, and I plunged my poniard in her throat.
She rolled over with a cry that rent my soul; she looked at me in her
death-struggle, but without anger. I would have given the whole
world--my cross, which I had not yet gained, all, everything--to restore
her life to her. It was as if I had assassinated a real human being, a
friend. When the soldiers who had seen my flag came to my rescue they
found me in tears.

"Ah! well, monsieur, I went through the wars in Germany, Spain, Russia,
and France; I have marched my carcass well-nigh the world over, but I