Her eyes were gleaming with excitement.
“They are a beautiful audience,” she added; “and the orchestra, the soft music—that was better than London fiddles.”
“Come back to the camp, Claire.”
“Very well.”
He drew her arm through his, and led her out into the moonlight and down the hill. Two shadows detached themselves from the silent assembly and followed them, barefooted, over the dewy grass. They were the soldiers. Claire looked back and saw them.
“I shall give those men a handful of pesetas, to-morrow,” she said.
They reached the camp and sat down on two folding chairs in the shadow of Claire's tent. The soldiers stood near, gazing intently at them. Claire sat in a curved attitude. She had drawn a dark veil over her hair, and her enormous and tragic eyes were turned sombrely on Renfrew. She looked fatigued, as she often did after acting a long and passionate part. To Renfrew she seemed more wonderful than ever. He could scarcely believe that he was her husband.
“You have had your circle of savages,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you liked them?”