contrast to drums and trumpets. He felt himself as a soldier degraded and could not understand why he should be relegated to a salon and to the mild society of two ladies who did not even know how to pull his ears or roll him over on the rug with their riding boots and spurs. He sat against the window as was his habit, looking, watching, yearning. 

 "Vous avez tort, ma chère," said her aunt, who was working something less than a thousand flowers on her tapestry. "The chance to be a princess and a Tremont does not come twice in a young girl's life, and you know you have only to be reasonable, Julia." 

 Miss Redmond's fingers wandered, magnetically drawn by her thoughts, into a song which she played softly through. Pitchouné heard and turned his beautiful head and his soft eyes to her. He knew that tune. Neither drums nor trumpets had played it but there was no doubt about its being fit for soldiers. He had heard his master sing it, hum it, many times. It had soothed his nerves when he was a sick puppy and it went with many things of the intimate life with his master. He remembered it when he had dozed by the fire and dreamed of chasing cats and barking at Brunet and being a faithful dog all around; he heard again a beloved voice hum it to him. Pitchouné whined and softly jumped down from his seat. He put his forepaws on Miss Redmond's lap. She stopped and caressed him, and he licked her hand. 

 "That is the first time I have seen that dog show a spark of human gratitude, Julia, He is probably begging you to open the door and let him take a run." 

 Indeed Pitchouné did go to the door and waited appealingly. 

 "I think you might trust him out. I think he is tamed," said the Marquise d'Esclignac.  "He is a real little savage." 

 Miss Redmond opened the door and Pitchouné shot out.  She watched him tear like mad across the terrace, and scuttle into the woods, as she thought, after a rabbit. He was the color of the fallen leaves and she lost sight of him in the brown and golden brush. 

 CHAPTER IX THE FORTUNES OF WAR 

 Sabron's departure had been delayed on account of a strike at the dockyards of Marseilles. He left Tarascon one lovely day toward the end of January and the old town with its sweetness and its sorrow, fell behind, as he rolled away to brighter suns. A friend from Paris took him to the port in his motor and there Sabron waited some forty-eight hours before he 

 Prev. P 18/96 next