wn in
the sand. He had mounted afresh twice, three horses had been killed
underneath him, and his jacket all hung in strips where the steel had
slashed it. It was grand to see, and did one's heart good; but--ventre
bleu!--how one longed to go in too.

"There was only one left now--a young Arab, the Sheik's son, and down he
came like the wind. He thought with the shock to unhorse Rire-pour-tout,
and finish him then at his leisure. You could hear the crash as they
met, like two huge cymbals smashing together. Their chargers hit and
tore at each other's manes; they were twined in together there as if
they were but one man and one beast; they shook and they swayed and they
rocked; the sabers played about their heads so quick that it was like
lightning, as they flashed and twirled in the sun; the hoofs trampled up
the sand till a yellow cloud hid their struggle, and out of it all you
could see was the head of a horse tossing up and spouting with foam,
or a sword-blade lifted to strike. Then the tawny cloud settled down
a little, the sand mist cleared away, the Arab's saddle was empty--but
Rire-pour-tout sat like a rock. The old Chief bowed his head. 'It is
over! Allah is great!' And he knew his son lay there dead. Then we broke
from the ranks, and we rushed to the place where the chargers and men
were piled like so many slaughtered sheep. Rire-pour-tout laughed such
a gay, ringing laugh as the desert never had heard. 'Vive la France!' he
cried. 'And now bring me my toss of brandy.' Then down headlong out of
his stirrups he reeled and fell under his horse; and when we lifted him
up there were two broken sword-blades buried in him, and the blood
was pouring fast as water out of thirty wounds and more. That was how
Rire-pour-tout died, piou-piou; laughing to the last. Sacre bleu! It was
a splendid end; I wish I were sure of the like."

And Claude de Chanrellon drank down his third beaker, for overmuch
speech made him thirsty.

The men around him emptied their glasses in honor of the dead hero.

"Rire-pour-tout was a croc-mitaine," they said solemnly, with almost a
sigh; so tendering by their words the highest funeral oration.

"You have much of such sharp service here, I suppose?" asked a voice in
very pure French. The speaker was leaning against the open door of the
cafe; a tall, lightly built man, dressed in a velvet shooting tunic,
much the worse for wind and weather, a loose shirt, and jack-boots
splashed and worn out.