Twenty-third Street was packed solid with people and all aflutter
with flags under the July sun when the distant strains of military
music and blue lines of police heralded the coming of the 3rd
Zouaves.
Band crashing, raw, gray horses of field and staff-officers
dancing, the regiment came swinging down the wide stony street,--a
torrent of red and gold, a broad shaft of silvery bayonets;--and
halted facing the group of ladies and officials.
Celia Craig looked down at her husband where he sat his great gray
horse. Their last good-bye had already been said; he sat erect,
calm, gazing quietly up at her through his gold-rimmed eye-glasses;
from his blue sleeves' edge to the points of his shoulders
glittered in twisted gold the six-fold arabesques of his rank.
The roar of cheers was dying away now; a girlish figure in white
had moved forward to the edge of the lawn, carrying two standards
in her arms, and her voice was very clear and sweet and perfectly
audible to everybody;
"Colonel Craig, officers, and soldiers of the 3rd New York Zouaves;
the ladies of the Church of Sainte Ursula have requested me, in
their name, to present to you this set of colours. God guard them
and you!
"Remember that, although these flags are now yours, they still
remain ours.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211