Sabron had not been found.
It was a curious fact, and one that transpires now and then in the history of desert wars—the man is lost. The captain of the cavalry was missing, and the only news of him was that he had fallen in an engagement and that his body had never been recovered. Several sorties had been made to find him; the war department had done all that it could; he had disappeared from the face of the desert and even his bones could not be found.
From the moment that Julia Redmond had confessed her love for the Frenchman, a courage had been born in her which never faltered, and her aunt seemed to have been infected by it. The marquise grew sentimental, found out that she was more docile and impressionable than she had believed herself to be, and the veneer and etiquette (no doubt never a very real part of her) became less important than other things. During the last few weeks she had been more a De Puyster from Schenectady than the Marquise d'Esclignac.
"Ma tante," Julia Redmond had said to her when the last telegram was brought in to the Château d'Esclignac, "I shall leave for Africa to-morrow."
"My dear Julia!"
"He is alive! God will not let him die. Besides, I have prayed. I believe in God, don't you?"
"Of course, my dear Julia."
"Well," said the girl, whose pale cheeks and trembling hands that held the telegram made a sincere impression on her aunt, "well, then, if you believe, why do you doubt that he is alive? Some one must find him. Will you tell Eugene to have the motor here in an hour? The boat sails to-morrow, ma tante."
The marquise rolled her embroidery and put it aside for twelve months. Her fine hands looked capable as she did so.
"My dear Julia, a young and handsome woman can not follow like a daughter of the regiment, after the fortunes of a soldier."