The Count de Sabron had always dreaded just what happened to him. He had fallen in love with a woman beyond his reach, for he had no fortune whatsoever, nothing but his captain's pay and his hard soldier's life, a wanderer's life and one which he hesitated to ask a woman to share. In spite of the fact that Madame d'Esclignac was agreeable to him, she was not cordial, and he understood that she did not consider him a _parti_ for her niece. Other guests, as well as he, had shared her hospitality. He had been jealous of them, though he could not help seeing Miss Redmond's preference for himself. Not that he wanted to help it. He recalled that she had really sung to him, decidedly walked by his side when there had been more than the quartette, and he felt, in short, her sympathy. "Pitchouné," he said to his companion, "we are better off in Algiers, _mon vieux_. The desert is the place for us. We shall get rid of fancies there and do some hard fighting one way or another." Pitchouné, whose eyes had followed the cat out of sight, sprang upon his master and seemed quite ready for the new departure. "I shall at least have you," Sabron said. "It will be your first campaign. We shall have some famous runs and I shall introduce you to a camel and make you acquainted with several donkeys, not to speak of the historic Arab steeds. You will see, my friend, that there are other animals besides yourself in creation." "A telegram for _mon capitaine_." Brunet came in with the blue envelope which Sabron tore open. "_You will take with you neither horses nor dogs._" It was an order from the minister of war, just such a one as was sent to some half-dozen other young officers, all of whom, no doubt, felt more or less discomfited. Sabron twisted the telegram, put it in the fireplace and lighted his cigarette with it, watching Pitchouné who, finding himself a comfortable corner in the armchair, had settled down for a nap. "So," nodded the young man aloud, "I shall not even have Pitchouné." He smoked, musing. In the rigid discipline of his soldier's life he was used to obedience. His softened eyes, however, and his nervous fingers as they pulled at his mustache, showed that the command had touched him. "What shall I do with you, old fellow?" [Illustration: Sabron and Pitchouné] Although Sabron's voice was low, the dog, whose head was down upon his paws, turned his bright brown eyes on his master with so much confidence and affection that it completed the work. Sabron walked across the floor, smoking, the spurs on his heels clanking, the light shining on his brilliant boots and on his form. He was a splendid-looking man with race and breeding, and he combined with his masculine force the gentleness of a woman.