"Very little," answered Tavernay, phlegmatically. "Listen, my friend. One day, some years ago, a captain of Hussars landed at Oran. He came to Bel-Abbès with a letter of introduction to me. He stayed with me. He expressed a wish to see my men on parade. I turned them out. He came to the parade-ground and inspected them. As he passed along the ranks he suddenly stopped in front of an old soldier with fifteen years' service in the Legion, much of which fifteen years had been passed in the cells. The old soldier was a drunkard--oh, but a confirmed drunkard. Well, in front of this man my young Captain with the curled moustaches stopped--stopped and turned very pale. But he did not speak. My soldier looked at him respectfully, and the Captain continued his inspection. Well, they were father and son--that is all. Why should anything astonish me?" and Captain Tavernay struck a match and lighted a cigarette. The match, however, attracted attention to the presence of the officers. Four men who marched, keeping time with their feet and holding their hands stiffly at their sides, saw the flame and remarked the uniforms. Their hands rose at once to the salute. "Ah! German deserters," said Tavernay. "They fight well." Others followed, men in rags and out of shoe-leather, outcasts and fugitives; and behind them came one who was different. He was tall and well-knit, with a frank open face, not particularly intellectual, on the other hand not irretrievably stupid. He was dressed in a double-breasted, blue-serge suit, and as he walked he now and then gave a twist to his fair moustache, as though he were uneasy and embarrassed. Captain Tavernay ran his eyes over him with the look of a connoisseur. "Aha!" said he, with a chuckle of satisfaction. "The true legionary! Hard, finely trained, he has done work too. Yes! You see, Laurent, he is a little ashamed, a little self-conscious. He feels that he is looking a fool. I wonder what nationality he will claim." "He comes from the North," said Lament. "Possibly from Normandy." "Oh, I know what he is," returned Tavernay. "I am wondering only what he will claim to be. Let us go outside and see." Tavernay led the way to the platform. Outside, in front of the station, the _sous-officier_ marshalled his men in a line. They looked a strange body of men as they stood there, blinking in the strong sunlight. The man in the ruffled silk hat and the dress-suit toed the line beside a bundle of rags; the German deserters rubbed elbows with the "true legionary" in the blue serge. Those thirty men represented types of almost all the social grades, and to a man they were seeking the shelter of anonymity in that monastery of action, the Foreign Legion. "Answer to your names," said the _sous-officier_, and from a paper in his hand he began to read. The answers came back, ludicrous in their untruth. A French name would be called. "Montaubon." And a German voice replied-- "Present."