guished
another sound--a low, incessant hum, monotonous, interminable as
the noise of a stream in a gorge. It was not the river Saar
moving over its bed of sand and yellow pebbles; it was not the
breeze in the furze. He knew what it was; he had heard it before,
in Oran--in the stillness of dawn, where, below, among the
shadowy plains, an army was awaking under dim tents.

And now his horse's head rose up black against the sky; now the
valley broke into view below, gray, indistinct in the shadows,
crossed by ghostly lines of poplars that dwindled away to the
horizon.

At the same instant something moved in the fields to the left,
and a shrill voice called: "Qui-vive?" Before he could draw
bridle blue-jacketed cavalrymen were riding at either stirrup,
carbine on thigh, peering curiously into his face, pushing their
active light-bay horses close to his big black horse.

Jack laughed good-humouredly and fumbled in the breast of his
Norfolk jacket for his papers.

"I'm only a special," he said; "I think you'll find the papers in
order--if not, you've only to gallop back to the Chateau Morteyn
to verify them."

An officer with a bewildering series of silver arabesques on
either sleeve guided a nervous horse through the throng of
troopers, returned Jack's pleasant salute, reached out a gloved
hand for his papers, and read them, sitting silently in his
saddle. When he finished, he removed the cigarette from his lips,
looked eagerly at Jack, and said:

"You are from Morteyn?"

"Yes."

"A guest?"

"The Vicomte de Morteyn is my uncle."

The officer burst into a boyish laugh.

"Jack Marche!"

"Eh!" cried Jack, startled.

Then he looked more closely at the young officer before him, who
was laughing in his face.

"Well, upon my word! No--it can't be little Georges Carriere?"

"Yes, it can!" cried the other, briskly; "none of your damned
airs, Jack! Embrace me, my son!"

"My son, I won't!" said Jack, leaning forward joyously--"the
idea! Little Georges calls me his son! And he's learning the
paternal tricks of the old generals, and doubtless he calls his
troopers 'mes enfants,' and--"

"Oh, shut up!" said Georges, giving him an impetuous hug; "what
are you up to now--more war correspondence? For the same old
_Herald_? Nom d'une pipe! It's cooler here than in Oran. It'll
be hotter, too--in another way," with a gay gesture towards the
valley below. "Jack Marche, tell me all about everything!"

On either side