comes to do it, you need only
shut your eyes."

"Tell me what you mean," said Sanda anxiously.

"Every letter you write--not to your father, because he might ask
questions, but to a friend--leave the envelope open, and turn your back,
or go out of the room. Then don't look into the letter again, or notice
if it seems thicker than before, but fasten it up tightly and seal the
envelope with wax. Will you do that?"

"Yes," said Sanda, rather miserably. "To save you I will do that."

"You have friends in France who would post a letter if they found it
enclosed in one of yours, without explanations?"

"I have friends who would do that, perhaps, but to make it more sure I
will explain. It would not save my conscience to let you slip a letter
into an open envelope, and pretend to myself that I knew nothing about
it; because I _would_ know, and I think I'd almost rather be
hypocritical with other people than with myself."

"I told you," exclaimed Ourieda, "that Roumia girls were different from
us even in their secret thoughts! But you will love me, won't you,
although you think I am stealthy and sly? I need your love and help!"

"I love you, or I shouldn't have promised what I have just promised
now," Sanda assured her.

"But if there were still more--something harder and more
dangerous--would you love me enough to do that thing too?"

"Do you mean something in particular that you have in your mind, or----"

"Yes, oh, yes! I mean something in particular."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"I am half afraid."

"Don't be afraid. Tell me!"

"Hush!" whispered Ourieda. "Don't you hear some one on the
stairs--coming up softly? I must tell you another time. Laugh! Laugh out
aloud! Call to the doves!"

The two girls began to chatter together like children. And their young
voices tinkling out in laughter sounded pitifully small in the immensity
of the night-bleached desert.

* * * * *

Far away in the north where colonist farmers had long ago conquered the
desert there was music that evening at Sidi-bel-Abbes, headquarters of
the Foreign Legion. The soul of the Legion was speaking in its
tragic-sweet voice, and the Place Carnot was full of soldiers
sauntering singly or in pairs, mostly silent, as if to hear their own
heart-secrets cried aloud by telltale 'cellos and flutes and violins.

The townsfolk were there, too; and when the band played some selection
especially to their liking