“To have faced a death like that in utter desolation, utter loneliness, must make life seem very different afterwards.” “Yes, Madame. But I did not feel utterly alone.” “Your men!” “No, Madame.” After a pause he added, simply: “My mother is a devout Catholic, Madame. I am her only child, and--she taught me long ago that in any peril one is never quite alone.” Domini’s heart warmed to him. She loved this trust in God so frankly shown by a soldier, member of an African regiment, in this wild land. She loved this brave reliance on the unseen in the midst of the terror of the seen. Before they spoke again Androvsky crossed the dark space between the tents and came slowly into the circle of the lamplight. De Trevignac got up from his chair, and Domini introduced the two men. As they bowed each shot a swift glance at the other. Then Androvsky looked down, and two vertical lines appeared on his high forehead above his eyebrows. They gave to his face a sudden look of acute distress. De Trevignac thanked him for his proffered hospitality with the ease of a man of the world, assuming that the kind invitation to him and to his men came from the husband as well as from the wife. When he had finished speaking, Androvsky, without looking up, said, in a voice that sounded to Domini new, as if he had deliberately assumed it: “I am glad, Monsieur. We found gazelle, and so I hope--I hope you will have a fairly good dinner.” The words could scarcely have been more ordinary, but the way in which they were uttered was so strange, sounded indeed so forced, and so unnatural, that both De Trevignac and Domini looked at the speaker in surprise. There was a pause. Then Batouch and Ouardi came in with the soup. “Come!” Domini said. “Let us begin. Monsieur de Trevignac, will you sit here on my right?”