cosmopolitan society, speaking a foreign tongue in a foreign land, with such indestructible sturdiness that it was upon the Anglo-Saxon party that he mentally relied in this strait. He had absolutely forgotten that it was the girl's own brother who was her natural protector, and upon whom lay the onus of discovering the solution of this insoluble problem and extricating the girl from her terrible position.
What could he do? It was all very well to say that the three Englishmen and the American would protect her, that night, by forming a sentry-group and watching in turn—but how long could that go on? It would be all over the barracks to-morrow, and known to the authorities a few hours later. Oh, if he could only do her up in a parcel and post her to Marguerite with just a line, "Please take care of this poor girl.—Monty." Marguerite would keep her safe enough.… But thinking nonsense wasn't helping. He would load his rifle in earnest, and settle scores with Luigi Rivoli, once and for all, if he returned with a gang to back him. Incidentally, that would settle his own fate, for it would mean a Court Martial at Oran followed by a firing-party, or penal servitude in the Zephyrs, and, at his age, that would only be a slower death.
All very well for him and Rivoli, but what of the girl? … What ghastly danger it must have been that drove them to such a dreadful expedient. Truly the Legion was a net for queer fish. Poor, plucky little soul, what could he do for her?
Never since he wore the two stars[1] of a British Captain had he longed, as he did at that moment, for power and authority. If only he were a Captain again,
- ↑ Since increased to three, of course
