no formalities in the desert," she said. "But I'm going to
leave you together for a moment. Give Monsieur de Trevignac a cigar,
Boris. Coffee is coming directly."

She went out towards the camp fire. She wanted to leave the men together
to seal their good fellowship. Her husband's change from taciturnity to
cordiality had enchanted her. Happiness was dancing within her. She felt
gay as a child. Between the fire and the tent she met Ouardi carrying a
tray. On it were a coffee-pot, cups, little glasses and a tall bottle of
a peculiar shape with a very thin neck and bulging sides.

"What's that, Ouardi?" she asked, touching it with her finger.

"That is an African liqueur, Madame, that you have never tasted. Batouch
told me to bring it in honour of Monsieur the officer. They call it--"

"Another surprise of Batouch's!" she interrupted gaily. "Take it in!
Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert."

He went on, and she stood for a few minutes looking at the blaze of the
fire, and at the faces lit up by it, French and Arab. The happy soldiers
were singing a French song with a chorus for the delectation of the
Arabs, who swayed to and fro, wagging their heads and smiling in an
effort to show appreciation of the barbarous music of the Roumis.
Dreary, terrible Mogar and its influences were being defied by the
wanderers halting in it. She thought of Androvsky's words about the
human will overcoming the influence of place, and a sudden desire
came to her to go as far as the tower where she had felt sad and
apprehensive, to stand in its shadow for an instant and to revel in her
happiness.

She yielded to the impulse, walked to the tower, and stood there facing
the darkness which hid the dunes, the white plains, the phantom sea,
seeing them in her mind, and radiantly defying them. Then she began to
return to the camp, walking lightly, as happy people walk. When she had
gone a very short way she heard someone coming towards her. It was too
dark to see who it was. She could only hear the steps among the stones.
They were hasty. They passed her and stopped behind her at the tower.
She wondered who it was, and supposed it must be one of the soldiers
come to fetch something, or perhaps tired and hastening to bed.

As she drew near to the camp she saw the lamplight shining in the tent,
where doubtless De Trevignac and Androvsky were smoking and talking
in frank good fellowship. It was like a bright star,