noon
`` It 's the Emperor . Listen , we are going to cheer , '' cried Georges . He rose in his saddle and drew his sabre , and at the same instant a deep roar shook the regiment to its centre -- `` Vive l'Empereur ! '' It was a little after noon when the regiment halted on the Saint-Avold highway , blocked in front by a train of Guard artillery , and on either flank by columns of infantry -- voltigeurs , red-legged fantassins loaded with camp equipment , engineers in crimson and bluish-black , and a whole battalion of Turcos , scarlet fez rakishly hauled down over one ear , canvas zouave trousers tucked into canvas leggings that fitted their finely moulded ankles like gloves . Jack rested patiently on his horse , waiting for the road to be cleared , and beside him sat Georges , chatting paternally with the giant standard-bearer of the Turcos . The huge fellow laughed and showed his dazzling teeth under the crisp jet beard , for Georges was talking to him in his native tongue -- and it was many miles from Saint-Avold to Oran . His standard , ornamented with the `` opened hand and spread fingers , '' fluttered and snapped , and stood out straight in the valley breeze .