oined Max thoroughly hated the
Legion and wished wildly that he had never come near Sidi-bel-Abbes. Yet
did he wish that? If he had not come he would not have met Colonel
DeLisle, his beau ideal of a man and a soldier. He would be a boy again,
it seemed, with his eyes shut in the face of life. And he would miss his
sweetest memory of Sanda: that hour in the Salle d'Honneur of the
Legion, when she had christened him St. George and called him "her
soldier." But after all, of what use to him could be his acquaintance
with the Legion's colonel? There was a gulf between them now. And would
it not be as well or better to forget that little episode of friendship
with the colonel's daughter? She had probably forgotten it by this time.
And a Legionnaire has no business with women, even as friends. Besides,
Max was in a mood to doubt all friendship. He had had a letter that
day--his first letter from any one in four months--telling him that
Grant Reeves had married Josephine Doran.

Of course, Grant had a right to marry Josephine; but not to write until
the wedding day was safely over--as if he had been afraid Max would try
to stop it--and then to confess how he had come with his mother to meet
Josephine at Algiers! That was secret and unfriendly, even treacherous.
Max remembered very well how Grant had proposed accompanying Mrs.
Reeves, and he--Max--had rather impetuously vetoed the arrangement,
saying it was unnecessary, and guessing instinctively the budding idea
in Grant's mind. It was clear now that Grant had never abandoned it,
that he had from the first planned a campaign to win the heiress before
any other man had a chance with her, and that he had carried out the
scheme with never a hitch. The letter, written on the eve of the
wedding, had been three weeks on the way. Grant (the only person except
Edwin Reeves to whom Max had revealed himself as Maxime St. George,
Number 1033, in the Tenth Company, First Regiment of the Foreign Legion)
wrote that he was telling nobody where his friend was, or what he had
done. "The day will surely come, dear boy," Grant said--and Max could
almost hear his voice speaking--"when you will wish to blot out these
pages from your book of life. I want to make it easy for you to do so;
and I advise you to keep your present resolve: confide in none of your
pals. They might not be as discreet as the governor and I."

"He's glad I'm out of the way," thought Max. "He wants me to be
forgotten by eve