The weekly times-record. (Valley City, N.D.) 1912-1922, 1915-03-18
CHAPTER XII.
The News From Africa.

nings to answer her letter, and the
writing of it gave Sabron a vast
amount Of pleasure and some tender
sorrow. 1t made him feel at once so
near to this lovely woman and at once
SO far away. In truth there is a great
difference between spahi on an At
rican desert, and a young American
heiress dreaming in her chintz-covered
bedroom in a chateau in the Midi Of
France.
Notwithstanding, the young Ameri.
can heiress felt herselr as much alone
in her chintz-coverea bedroom and as
desolate, perhaps more so, than did
Sabron in his tent. Julia Redmond
felt, too, that she was surrounded by
people hostile to her friend.
Sabron's letter told her of Pitchoune
and was written as only the hand of a
charming and imaginative Frenchman
can write letter. Also, his pent-ap
heart and his reserve made what he
did say stronger than if perhaps he
could have expressed it quite frankly.
Julia Redmond turned the sheets
that told of Pitchoune's following his
master, and colored with JOY and pleas.
ure as she read. She wiped away two
tears at the end, where Sabron said:
Think of it, Mademoiselle, little dog
following his master from peace and
plenty, from quiet and security, into the
desert! And think what it means to have
this little friend!
Julia Redmond reflected, was great.
ly touched and loved Pitchoune more
than ever. She would have changed
places with him gladly. It was an
honor, a distinction to share a SOL
dier's exile and to be his companion.
Then Sabron wrote, in closing words
which she read and reread many,
many times.
Mademoiselle, in this life many things
follow US; certain of these follow us
whether we will or not. Some things we
are strong enough to forbid, yet we do
not forbid them! My little dog followed
me; I had nothing to do with that. 1t
was question of fate. Something else
has followed me as well. 1t is not liv-
ing thing, and yet it has all the qualities
Of vitality. It is a tune. From the mo-
ment I left the chateau the first night
had the joy of seeing you, Mademoiselle,
the tune you sang became a companion
to me and has followed me everywhere
followed me to my barracks, fol-
lowed me across the sea, and here in my
tent it keeps me company. I find that
when I wake at night the melody sings
to me: find that when mount my horse
and ride with my men. when the deserts
sands are shifted by my horses feet.
something sings in the sun and in the
heat, something sings in the chase and in
the pursuit, and in the nights, under the
stars, the same air haunts me still.
am glad you told me what the words
mean, for I find them beautiful; the mu-
sic in it would not be the same without
the strength and form of the words. So
1t u.s. Mademoiselle, with life Feelings
and sentiments, passions and emotions
are like music They are great and beau
tiful; they follow US, they are part of us.
but they would be nothing-music would
could make it audible-appealing not to
our senses alone but to our souls!
And yet I must close my letter sending
you only the tune; the words cannot
send you, yet believe me, they form part
Of everything do or say.
Tomorrow. understand from my men.
wo shall have some lively work to do.
Whatever that work is you will hear o.
It through the papers. There is little
town near here called Dirbal, inhabited
by poor tribe whose lives have been
made miserable by robbers and slave
dealers. It is the business of US watchers
Of the plains to protect them, and be-
lieve we Shall Have a lively sxirmlsh with
the marauders There is a congregation
Of tribes coming down from the north.
When go out with my people tomorrow
it may be into danger for In a wandering
life like this. who can tell? do not mean
to be either morbid or sentimental. only
mean to be serious, MademOiselle, and
find that I am becoming SO serious that
1t will be best to close.
Adieu, Mademoiiselle. When you look
from your window on the Rhone Valley
and see the peaceful fields Of Tarascon,
| when you look on your peaceful gardens,
perhaps your mind will travel farther
and you will think of Africa. Do so II
| you can. and perhaps tonight you will
say the words only of the aong before you
90 to sleep. e
| am, Mademoiselle,
| Faithfully yours,
CHARLES DE SAFFRON.
i There was only one place for let
L ~. 2 49,