Her emotion increased at seeing them again, the men whom she called her children. And Patrice Belval exclaimed:
“Ah, Little Mother Coralie, now you’re crying! Little mother, little mother, that’s how you captured all our hearts. When we were trying our hardest not to call out, on our bed of pain, we used to see your eyes filling with great tears. Little Mother Coralie was weeping over her children. Then we clenched our teeth still firmer.”
“And I used to cry still more,” she said, “just because you were afraid of hurting me.”
“And to-day you’re at it again. No, you are too soft-hearted! You love us. We love you. There’s nothing to cry about in that. Come, Little Mother Coralie, a smile. . . . And, I say, here’s Ya-Bon coming; and Ya-Bon always laughs.”
She rose suddenly:
“Do you think he can have overtaken one of the two men?”
“Do I think so? I told Ya-Bon to bring one back by the neck. He won’t fail. I’m only afraid of one thing. . . .”
They had gone towards the hall. The Senegalese was already on the steps. With his right hand he was clutching the neck of a man, of a limp rag, rather, which he seemed to be carrying at arm’s length, like a dancing-doll.
“Drop him,” said the captain.
Ya-Bon loosened his fingers. The man fell on the flags in the hall.