I was still in that stage where I could suppose that André's imagination needed artificial stimulants. Meticulous observation undeceived me. There was nothing suspicious in this respect. Moreover, he rarely drank and almost never smoked. And nevertheless, there was no means of denying the increase of his disquieting feverishness. He returned from his expeditions each time with his eyes more brilliant. He was paler, more animated, more irritable. One evening he left the post about six o'clock, at the end of the greatest heat of the day. We waited for him all night. My anxiety was all the stronger because quite recently caravans had brought tidings of bands of robbers in the neighborhood of the post. At dawn he had not returned. He did not come before midday. His camel collapsed under him, rather than knelt. He realized that he must excuse himself, but he waited till we were alone at lunch. "I am so sorry to have caused you any anxiety. But the dunes were so beautiful under the moon! I let myself be carried farther and farther...." "I have no reproaches to make, dear fellow, you are free, and the chief here. Only allow me to recall to you certain warnings concerning the Chaamba brigands, and the misfortunes that might arise from a Commandant of a post absenting himself too long." He smiled. "I don't dislike such evidence of a good memory," he said simply. He was in excellent, too excellent spirits. "Don't blame me. I set out for a short ride as usual. Then, the moon rose. And then, I recognized the country. It is just where, twenty years ago next November, Flatters followed the way to his destiny in an exaltation which the certainty of not returning made keener and more intense." "Strange state of mind for a chief of an expedition," I murmured. "Say nothing against Flatters. No man ever loved the desert as he did ... even to dying of it." "Palat and Douls, among many others, have loved it as much," I answered. "But they were alone when they exposed themselves to it. Responsible only for their own lives, they were free. Flatters, on the other hand, was responsible for sixty lives. And you cannot deny that he allowed his whole party to be massacred." The words were hardly out of my lips before I regretted them, I thought of Chatelain's story, of the officers' club at Sfax, where they avoided like the plague any kind of conversation which might lead their thoughts toward a certain Morhange-Saint-Avit mission. Happily I observed that my companion was not listening. His brilliant eyes were far away. "What was your first garrison?" he asked suddenly. "Auxonne." He gave an unnatural laugh. "Auxonne. Province of the Cote d'Or. District of Dijon. Six thousand inhabitants. P.L.M. Railway. Drill school and review. The Colonel's wife receives Thursdays, and the Major's on Saturdays. Leaves every Sunday,--the first of the month to Paris, the three others to Dijon. That explains your Judgment of Flatters.