"Mon dieu, monsieur, there is liberty of[pg 326] speech for all in France. That blackbird might be glad to know your name if you choose to tell him."
"But I ask your permission to speak to you!" There seemed to be no sense of humour in this young man.
She laughed:
"I am not curious to hear who you are!... But if it affords you any relief to explain to the west wind what your name may be—" She ended with a disdainful shrug. After a moment she lifted her pretty eyes to his—lovely, provocative, tormenting eyes. But they were studying the stranger closely.
He was a powerfully built, dark-skinned young man in the familiar khaki of the American muleteers, wearing their insignia, their cap, their holster and belt, and an extra pouch or wallet, loaded evidently with something heavy.
She said, coolly:
"You must be one of the new Yankee muleteers who came with that beautiful new herd of mules."
"Yes, I'm an American muleteer. My name is Charles Braun. I came over in the last transport."
"You know Steek?"