Sabron glanced over to the mat where Pitchouné, stretched on his side, his forelegs wide, was breathing tranquilly in the heat.
"We have heard rumors of a little dog who was seen running along the highway, miles from Tarascon, but of course that could not have been Pitchouné."
Sabron nodded. "It was, however, mon brave," he said to the terrier.
"Not but what I think his little heart was brave enough and valiant enough to have followed you, but no dog could go so far without a better scent."
Sabron said: "It is one of the regrets of my life that you can not tell us about it. How did you get the scent? How did you follow me?" Pitchouné did not stir, and Sabron's eyes returned to the page.
"I do not think you will ever forgive us. You left us a trust and we did not guard it."
He put the letter down a moment, brushed some of the flies away from the candle and made the wick brighter. Mustapha came in, black as ebony, his woolly head bare. He stood as stiff as a ramrod and as black. In his child-like French he said:
"Monsieur le Lieutenant asks if Monsieur le Capitaine will come to play a game of carté in the mess tent?"
"No," said Sabron, without turning. "Not to-night." He went on with his letter:
"... a sacred trust."