The Carlisle independent., 1915-10-21

on those silent days, and his blue eyes, where the very whites were burned, began to wear the far-away. mysterious look of the traveller across long distances. During the last sand storm he stood, with the camels, round Sabron's litter, human shade and shield. and when the storm ceased he fell like one dead, and the Arabs pulled off his boots and put him to bed like child
 One sundown, as they travelled into the afterglow with the East behind them, when Fremont thought he could not endure another day of the voyage, when the pallor and waXiness of Sabrons face were like death itself, Hammet Abou, who rode ahead, cried out and pulled up his camel short He waved him arm.
 "A caravan, monsieur"
 In the distance they saw the tents, like lotus leaves, scattered on the pink sands, and the dark shadows of the Arabs and the couchant beasts, and the glow of the encampment fire.
 An encampment, monsieur!"
 Fremont sighed. He drew the cur tain of the litter and looked in upon Sabron, who was sleeping. His set features, the growth of his uncut beard, the long fringe of his eyes, his dark hair upon his forehead, his wan transparency-with the peace upon his face, he might have been a figure of Christ waiting for sepulture.
 Fremont cried to him: "Sabron, mon vieux Charles, reveille-toi! We are in sight of human beings!"
 But Sabron gave no sign that he heard or cared.
 Throughout the journey across the desert, Pitchoune had ridden at his will and according to his taste, some | times journeying for the entire day perehed upon Tremonts camel. He sat like little figurehead or mas cot, with ears pointed northward and his keen nose sniffing the desert air. | Sometimes he would take the same 1 position on one of the mules that car 1 ried Sabron's litter, at his masters feet. There he would lie hour after hour with his soft eyes fixed with understanding sympathy upon Sab ron's face.
 He was, as he had been to Fatou Ami, kind of fetish-the caravan adored him. Now from his position at Sabron's feet, he crawled up and | licked his masters hand.
 "Charles!" Fremont cried, and lift ed the soldiers hand
 Sabron opened his eyes. He was sane. The glimmer of a smile touched his lips. He said Tremonts name, recognized him. Are we home?" he asked weakly. "Is it France?"
 Fremont turned and dashed away a tear
 He drew the curtains of the litter and now walked beside it, his legs feeling like cotton and his heart beat ing.
 As they came up toward the en- campment, two people rode out to meet them, two women in white riding habits, on stallions, and as the evening breeze fiuttered the veils from their helmets, they seemed to be flags of welcome.
 Under his helmet Fremont was red and burned. He had a short, rough growth of beard.
 Therese de la Maine and Julia Red mond rode up. Fremont recognized them, and came forward, half stagger- ing. He looked at Julia and smiled, and pointed with his left hand toward the litter; but he went directly up to Madame de la Maine, who sat immov- able on her little stallion. Fremont seemed to gather her in his arms. He lifted her down to him.
 Julia Redmond's eyes were on the litter, whose curtains were stirring in the breeze. Hammet Abou, with profound salaam. came forward to her.
 "Mademoiselle," he said, respect fully, "he lives. have kept my word"
 Pitchoune sprang from the litter and ran over the sands to Julia Redmond. She dismounted from her horse alone and called him: "Pitchoune. Pit choune," Kneeling down on the des- ert, she stopped to caress him, and he crouched at her feet, licking her hands.