“The last in a man’s life, Madame.”
He spoke simply, even with a light touch of humour that was almost cynical, but she felt beneath his words and manner a solemnity and a thankfulness that attracted and moved her.
“Those terrible dunes!” she said.
And, turning, she looked out over them.
There was no sunset, but the deepening of the grey into a dimness that seemed to have blackness behind it, the more ghastly hue of the white plains of saltpetre, and the fading of the mirage sea, whose islands now looked no longer red, but dull brown specks in a pale mist, hinted at the rapid falling of night.
“My husband is out in them,” she added.
“Your husband, Madame!”
He looked at her rather narrowly, shifted from one leg to the other as if trying his strength, then added:
“Not far, though, I suppose. For I see you have a camp here.”
“He has only gone after gazelle.”