We were now, Chatelain and I, our guns resting on the already cooling earth, beside the pool that forms the center of the meager oasis, hidden behind a kind of hedge of alfa. The setting sun was reddening the stagnant ditches which irrigate the poor garden plots of the sedentary blacks.
Not a word during the approach. Not a word during the shoot. Chatelain was obviously sulking.
In silence we knocked down, one after the other, several of the miserable doves which came on dragging wings, heavy with the heat of the day, to quench their thirst at the thick green water. When a half-dozen slaughtered little bodies were lined up at our feet I put my hand on the Sergeant's shoulder.
"Chatelain!"
He trembled.
"Chatelain, I was rude to you a little while ago. Don't be angry. It was the bad time before the siesta. The bad time of midday."
"The Lieutenant is master here," he answered in a tone that was meant to be gruff, but which was only strained.
"Chatelain, don't be angry. You have something to say to me. You know what I mean."
"I don't know really. No, I don't know."