"Voyons," said the officer to the marine, who came rolling over to them, "where did you get this dog?"
The young man's voice was imperative and he fixed stern eyes on the sailor, who pulled his forelock and explained.
"He was following me," said Sabron, not without a slight catch in his voice. The body of Pitchouné quivered under his arm. "He is my dog. I think his manner proves it. If you have grown fond of him I am sorry for you, but I think you will have to give him up."
Sabron put his hand in his pocket and turned a little away to be free of the native crowd that, chattering and grinning, amused and curious and eager to participate in any distribution of coin, was gathering around him. He found two gold pieces which he put into the hand of the sailor.
"Thank you for taking care of him. I am at the Royal Hotel." He nodded, and with Pitchouné under his arm pushed his way through the crowd and out of the bazaar.
He could not interview the dog himself, although he listened, amused, to Pitchouné's own manner of speech. He spent the latter part of the evening composing a letter to the minister of war, and although it was short, it must have possessed certain evident and telling qualities, for before he left Algiers proper for the desert, Sabron received a telegram much to the point:
"You may keep your dog. I congratulate you on such a faithful companion."
CHAPTER XI
A SACRED TRUST
His eyes had grown accustomed to the glare of the beautiful sands, but his sense of beauty was never satisfied with looking at the desert picture and drinking in the glory and the loveliness of the melancholy waste. Standing in the door of his tent in fatigue uniform, he said to Pitchouné: