You will have seen
black, that's all; be bold, daughter."
"It is not right for you to talk to your daughter in that way," said the
old soldier, in a slow and grave tone; "you would have done much better to
have allowed her to speak with the ordinary."
The widow shrugged her shoulders with savage contempt, and, without turning
her head, she continued: "Courage, daughter; we will show them that women
have more firmness than these men, with their priests--the cowards!"
"Commandant Leblon was the bravest of the third regiment of Chasseurs; I
saw him covered with wounds in the breach of Saragossa, and he died making
the sign of the cross," said the veteran.
"You were his chaplain, then?" demanded the widow, with a savage burst of
laughter.
"I was his soldier," answered the veteran, mildly. "It was only to let you
know that one can pray when about to die, without being a coward."
Calabash looked attentively at this man with the bronzed visage, a perfect
type of the soldier of the Empire; a deep scar furrowed his left cheek, and
was lost in his large mustache. The simple words of this veteran, whose
features, wounds, and red ribbon announced calm and tried bravery,
profoundly struck the widow's daughter.
She had refused the consolation of the priest, more from shame and fear of
her mother, than from callousness. In her restless and dying thoughts, she
compared the impious jesting of her mother with the piety of the soldier.
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