“This young man is going to help me bury the maid,” she said. Both to me and to the Turk she spoke in French, but it was not a day to think of such trifles. “We have already carried her into the laundry-house, and now we are going to dig a grave.”
Chakendé and the Turk went off to bury the Christian maid. It was an odd fact that during this whole earthquake, while all other nationalities were thinking of the living, it was the Turks mostly who thought of the dead.
When they came back to me, who still had the care of the children, for both my cousin and the maids were too hysterical to attend to them, Chakendé said:
“We are thinking that if we can get several rugs we can put up some kind of tents for the children and the rest of us to sleep under.”
“It is Mademoiselle who thought of that,” the young Turk said with admiration, and I realized then, that he was far from guessing that she was a Mussulman girl; for Chakendé, having nothing to cover her face with, went about like a European.
“That’s a good idea,” I assented, “but who is going to get the rugs? It will be difficult to make anyone go into the house.”
“I will go,” Chakendé said.
“Oh, no, mademoiselle!” the Turk protested. “This is a man’s work, not a woman’s. It is a dangerous task, and besides rugs are heavy.”
She smiled. “But I shall go too. Come, monsieur, don’t lose any time. The earth is quiet for the present.”
They left me, and on their return he was carrying a heavy pile of rugs, while Chakendé had all the sheets and pillows she could manage with her uninjured arm. The two of them proved remarkable tent-makers. One could see that they came of a race which for centuries had lived in tents. Not only did they put up one for my cousin’s family, but a little one for Chakendé and myself. They disappeared again, and returned with blankets. They made several trips into the house, until they had us all fully supplied with bedding.