"It is good. You can go."
The Zouave turned toward the door. When he had nearly reached it, Spero cried:
"Coucou, stay a moment."
"Just as you say, vicomte."
"I only wished to beg you again," said Spero, in a low, trembling voice, "not to think me stern or ungrateful. I shall never forget that it was you who accompanied my father and me to Africa, and that you placed your own life in danger to rescue mine."
"Ah, vicomte," stammered the Zouave, deeply moved, "that was only my duty."
"That a good many would have shirked this duty, and that you did not, is why I thank you still to-day. Give me your hand in token of our friendship. Now we are good friends again, are we not?"
With tears in his laughing eyes, Coucou laid his big brown hand in the delicate hand of the vicomte. The latter cordially shook it, and was almost frightened, when the Zouave uttered a faint cry and hastily withdrew his fingers.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Spero, in amazement.
"Oh, nothing, but—"