He was, as he had been to Fatou Anni, a kind of fetish: the caravan adored him. Now from his position at Sabron's feet, he crawled up and licked his master's hand. "Charles!" Tremont cried, and lifted the soldier's hand. Sabron opened his eyes. He was sane. The glimmer of a smile touched his lips. He said Tremont's name, recognized him. "Are we home?" he asked weakly. "Is it France?" Tremont turned and dashed away a tear. He drew the curtains of the litter and now walked beside it, his legs feeling like cotton and his heart beating. As they came up toward the encampment, two people rode out to meet them, two women in white riding-habits, on stallions, and as the evening breeze fluttered the veils from their helmets, they seemed to be flags of welcome. Under his helmet Tremont was red and burned. He had a short rough growth of beard. Thérèse de la Maine and Julia Redmond rode up. Tremont recognized them, and came forward, half staggering. He looked at Julia and smiled, and pointed with his left hand toward the litter; but he went directly up to Madame de la Maine, who sat immovable on her little stallion. Tremont seemed to gather her in his arms. He lifted her down to him. Julia Redmond's eyes were on the litter, whose curtains were stirring in the breeze. Hammet Abou, with a profound salaam, came forward to her. "Mademoiselle," he said respectfully, "he lives. I have kept my word." Pitchouné sprang from the litter and ran over the sands to Julia Redmond. She dismounted from her horse alone and called him: "Pitchouné! Pitchouné!" Kneeling down on the desert, she stooped to caress him, and he crouched at her feet, licking her hands. CHAPTER XXV AS HANDSOME DOES When Sabron next opened his eyes he fancied that he was at home in his old room in Rouen, in the house where he was born, in the little room in which, as a child, dressed in his dimity night-gown, he had sat up in his bed by candle-light to learn his letters from the cookery book. The room was snowy white. Outside the window he heard a bird sing, and near by, he heard a dog's smothered bark. Then he knew that he was not at home or a child, for with the languor and weakness came his memory. A quiet nurse in a hospital dress was sitting by his bed, and Pitchouné rose from the foot of the bed and looked at him adoringly. He was in a hospital in Algiers. "Pitchouné," he murmured, not knowing the name of his other companion, "where are we, old fellow?" The nurse replied in an agreeable Anglo-Saxon French: "You are in a French hospital in Algiers, sir, and doing well." Tremont came up to him. "I remember you," Sabron said. "You have been near me a dozen times lately." "You must not talk, _mon vieux_." "But I feel as though I must talk a great deal. Didn't you come for me into the desert?" Tremont, healthy, vigorous, tanned, gay and cheerful, seemed good-looking to poor Sabron, who gazed up at him with touching gratitude.