DeLisle might disapprove.
Also, he knew that the small, brief blaze of his notoriety would die out
like the flame of a candle. A week or two more and the "little tin god"
would go down off his wheels. If he meant to be somebody in the Legion
he would have to work as he had never worked in all his life.

With him in the Place Carnot was the Spaniard who had begged for his
civilian clothes. They were in the same company and of the same age.
From the first glance (given and taken when one man was a recruit and
the other did not yet dream of becoming one) something had drawn the two
together. Then had come the incident of the clothing; and Max had felt
himself an unwilling partner in the other's secret. Later, without
exchanging confidences (since "ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies,"
is a good general rule in the Legion), they drifted into a tacit kind of
comradeship, Max admiring the Spaniard, the Spaniard trusting Max.

To-night they walked together in silence, or speaking seldom, like the
other Legionnaires, and listening to the music. Suddenly the Spaniard
stopped, muttering some word under his breath, and Max saw through the
dusk that the olive face had gone ashy pale. "What's the matter, Garcia?
Are you ill?" he asked.

The other did not answer. He stood stock still, staring almost stupidly
straight before him.

Max linked an arm in his. "What's wrong? Garcia! What's wrong with you?"
he repeated.

The Spaniard started. "I beg your pardon," he stammered, dazed. "I
didn't realize you were--speaking--to me."

Instantly Max guessed that "Juan Garcia," the name appearing with the
"_numero matricule_" over the bed of _le bleu_, was as new as his place
in the Legion, and as fictitious as the alleged profession of _garcon
d'hotel_ which accounted cleverly for the recruit's stained evening
clothes.

"I only asked you what was wrong, what made you stop so suddenly?" Max
explained.

"It was that thing the band is playing now," said the Spaniard. "Strange
they should have it here already! It is out of the new African opera by
Saltenet, "La Nailia," produced for the first time ten days ago--a trial
performance at Marseilles, and on now at the Opera Comique in Paris.
Good heavens! Another world, and yet these extraordinary men are playing
that song here already--_my_ song!"

"Your song?" involuntarily Max echoed the words.

"My song. If a certain letter hadn't come to me on the night of the last
rehearsal but on