“He is a Chasseur d'Afrique?” she asked the Moslem.
“Yes, madame. I think—he must have been something very different some day.”
She did not answer; she stood with her thoughtful eyes gazing on the worn-out soldier.
“He saved me once, madame, at much risk to himself, from the savagery of some Turcos,” the old man went on. “Of course, he is always welcome under my roof. The companionship he has must be bitter to him, I fancy; they do say he would have had his officer's grade, and the cross, too, long before now, if it were not for his Colonel's hatred.”
“Ah! I have seen him before now; he carves in ivory. I suppose he has a good side for those things with you?”
The Moor looked up in amazement.
“In ivory, madame?—he? Allah—il-Allah! I never heard of it. It is strange——-”
“Very strange. Doubtless you would have given him a good price for them?”
“Surely I would; any price he should have wished. Do I not owe him my life?”
At that moment little Musjid let fall a valuable coffee-tray, inlaid with amber; his master, with muttered apology, hastened to the scene of the accident; the noise startled Cecil, and his eyes unclosed to all the dreamy, fantastic colors of the place, and met those bent on him in musing pity—saw that lustrous, haughty, delicate head bending slightly down through the many-colored shadows.