“That is for my husband, for I am English.”
“Vive l’Angleterre!” he said.
The two soldier echoed his words impulsively, lifting up in the gathering darkness hoarse voices.
“Vive l’Angleterre!”
“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “Now, Monsieur, please don’t let me keep you.”
“I shall be back directly,” the officer replied.
And he turned and went into the tower, while the soldiers rode round to the court, tugging at the cords of the led mules.
Domini waited for the return of Marelle. Her mood had changed. A glow of cordial humanity chased away her melancholy. The hostess that lurks in every woman—that housewife-hostess sense which goes hand-in-hand with the mother sense—was alive in her. She was keenly anxious to play the good fairy simply, unostentatiously, to these exhausted men who had come to Mogar out of the jaws of Death, to see their weary faces shine under the influence of repose and good cheer. But the tower looked desolate. The camp was gayer, cosier. Suddenly she resolved to invite them all to dine in the camp that night.
Marelle returned with Batouch. She saw them from a distance coming through the darkness with blazing torches in their hands. When they came to her she said:
“Batouch, I want you to order dinner in camp for the soldiers.”