Hold your hand, sir!" Cecil put out his hand; he expected to receive a heavy blow from his commander's saber, that possibly might break the wrist.

These little trifles were common in Africa.
Instead a rouleau of Napoleons was laid on his open palm.

Chateauroy knew the gold would sting more than the blow.
For the moment Cecil had but one impulse--to dash the pieces in the giver's face.

In time to restrain the impulse, he caught sight of the wild, eager hatred gleaming in the eyes of Rake, of Petit Picpon, of a score of others, who loved him and cursed their Colonel, and would at one signal from him have sheathed their swords in the mighty frame of the Marquis, though they should have been fired down the next moment themselves for the murder.

The warning of Cigarette came to his memory; his hand clasped on the gold; he gave the salute calmly as Chateauroy swung himself away.
The troops looked at him with longing, questioning eyes; they knew enough of him by now to know the bitterness such gold, so given, had for him.