"He comes here to rest sometimes out of the noise; he was very
tired to-day, and I think ill, would he have confessed it."
"Indeed!" Her eyes fell on him with compassion; he had fallen into an
attitude of much grace and of utter exhaustion; his head was uncovered
and rested on one arm, so that the face was turned upward. With a
woman's rapid, comprehensive glance, she saw that dark shadow, like a
bruise, under his closed, aching eyes; she saw the weary pain upon his
forehead; she saw the whiteness of his hands, the slenderness of his
wrists, the softness of his hair; she saw, as she had seen before, that
whatever he might be now, in some past time he had been a man of gentle
blood, of courtly bearing.
"He is a Chasseur d'Afrique?" she asked the Moslem.
"Yes, madame. I think--he must have been something very different some
day."
She did not answer; she stood with her thoughtful eyes gazing on the
worn-out soldier.
"He saved me once, madame, at much risk to himself, from the savagery
of some Turcos," the old man went on. "Of course, he is always welcome
under my roof. The companionship he has must be bitter to him, I fancy;
they do say he would have had his officer's grade, and the cross, too,
long before now, if it were not for his Colonel's hatred."
"Ah! I have seen him before now; he carves in ivory. I suppose he has a
good side for those things with you?"
The Moor looked up in amazement.
"In ivory, madame?--he? Allah--il-Allah! I never heard of it.
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