“Don’t be angry, Peyral.”
And he held Jean’s hand in his, and they both stood there, facing each other, troubled and silent.
Fatou, for her part, had realised that a word from her might ruin all. She had merely thrown herself on her knees again, softly muttering a negro prayer, and had wound her arms around the spahi’s legs, clinging to him.
Jean, vexed that another man should witness such a scene, said to her roughly,
“Come, Fatou, let me go, I beg you. Have you suddenly gone crazy?”
But to Pierre Boyer the pair did not seem ridiculous. On the contrary, he thought the scene touching.
A ray of morning sunshine glided across the yellow sand and slid in through the open door, casting a red light on the spahis’ uniforms, illuminating their pleasant, vigorous faces, clouded with anxiety and indecision, making the silver bracelets flash on Fatou’s supple arms, wound snake-like around Jean’s knees; emphasizing the dreary bareness of this African hut of wood and thatch where these three forlorn young creatures were deciding their own fate....
“Peyral,” continued the other spahi, speaking low, in a gentle voice.
“You see, Peyral, I am an Algerian. You know what that means. My good old parents live at Blidah, and they are waiting for me. They have no one but me. You, Peyral, will understand what it means to return to one’s home.”
“Very well, then, yes!” said Jean, pushing his red cap to the back of his head, and stamping on the ground, “Yes! I agree. I will exchange with you and stay.”