Paul’s face took life, his eyes kindled. No one knew better than he the difficulties which must have hampered that exploit.
“That was well done,” he cried. “Whose battalion?”
The old Algerian soldier replied:
“The Commandant Philipot’s.”
The gladness died out of Paul Ravenel’s face, and he sat in silence staring at the tiles of the floor. To Marguerite it was as though the light of a lamp waned and flickered out. She laid her hand upon his.
“That’s your battalion, Paul?”
Paul nodded, and whispered “Yes,” not trusting his voice over much.
“You should have been with it, my dear. But for me you would have led your company,” she said, remorsefully; and he cried out aloud suddenly in a voice which she had never heard him use before, a voice rough and violent and full of pain.
“I am on leave.”
Hearing him, she felt the compunction of one who has carelessly knocked against a throbbing wound. Her eyes went swiftly to his face. During these moments Paul Ravenel was off his guard, and she was looking upon a man in torture.