Tremont sighed. He drew the curtain of the litter and looked in upon Sabron, who was sleeping. His set features, the growth of his uncut beard, the long fringe of his eyes, his dark hair upon his forehead, his wan transparency—with the peace upon his face, he might have been a figure of Christ waiting for sepulture. Tremont cried to him: "Sabron, mon vieux Charles, réveille-toi! We are in sight of human beings!"
But Sabron gave no sign that he heard or cared.
Throughout the journey across the desert, Pitchouné had ridden at his will and according to his taste, sometimes journeying for the entire day perched upon Tremont's camel. He sat like a little figurehead or a mascot, with ears pointed northward and his keen nose sniffing the desert air. Sometimes he would take the same position on one of the mules that carried Sabron's litter, but his favorite post was within the litter, at his master's feet. There he would lie hour after hour, with his soft eyes fixed with understanding sympathy upon Sabron's face.
He was, as he had been to Fatou Anni, a kind of fetish: the caravan adored him. Now from his position at Sabron's feet, he crawled up and licked his master's hand.
"Charles!" Tremont cried, and lifted the soldier's hand.
Sabron opened his eyes. He was sane. The glimmer of a smile touched his lips. He said Tremont's name, recognized him. "Are we home?" he asked weakly. "Is it France?"
Tremont turned and dashed away a tear.
He drew the curtains of the litter and now walked beside it, his legs feeling like cotton and his heart beating.
As they came up toward the encampment, two people rode out to meet them, two women in white riding-habits, on stallions, and as the evening breeze fluttered the veils from their helmets, they seemed to be flags of welcome.
Under his helmet Tremont was red and burned. He had a short rough growth of beard.