"Give me the benefit of your advice," he exclaimed, "for I am terribly puzzled about Miss Poles. She has just been to me, in my tent, in a state of the greatest excitement. 'Doctor,' she cried, 'Doctor, protect me, I beseech you, from myself.'"
"Good heavens!" said I; "what danger is she in?"
"After much beating about the bush, and an immense amount of maidenly hesitation, she ended by confessing that she was madly in love with Kadjoro."
"We suspected as much," said do Morin; "but, my dear Delange, we hand her over to your tender mercies with every confidence."
"No, no, never!" exclaimed Delange. "Oh, what a mistake I made in coming with you instead of Dr. Desrioux! When I think that on this 25th of November, 1873, whilst we are menaced with so many dangers, he is seated quietly by a nice fire, with his friend Pommerelle at his side, and that they are both sticking pins on maps of Africa, following us from tribe to tribe, with their feet on the fender—"
"Oh, bother," said de Morin. "Very likely they are not following us any longer, but have forgotten all about us."
Madame de Guéran, who was present and had smilingly listened to
Delange's rhapsody, thought it high time to interfere in defence of
Desrioux.
"He has not forgotten us," said she; "and if it had not been for his mother, whom he would not leave, he would have been with us, and would have shared our dangers."
November 26th.—The sun is just rising in all its radiant glory. The army of the King of the Monbuttoos is already on the march, and we are off after it.