124 STORIES FROM DAUDET

was not hungry. Only he was thirsty
—always thirsty, and he drank off glass
after glass of water on the top of all
the beer and wine he had been paying
for at the public-house since the morn-
ing.

But a step sounds in the courtyard.
It is the blacksmith coming back.

‘Christian, it is your father! Quick,
hide, till I have time to speak to him,
to explain’. . . and she pushed him
behind the great ware stove, then took
her sewing in her trembling hands.
Unluckily the fez of the Zouave was
on the table, and it was the first thing
that Lory saw as he entered. The
pallor of the mother, her embarrass-
ment . . . he understood every-
thing.

‘Christian is here!’ he said in a
terrible voice, and, unhooking his sabre,
with a wild gesture he dashed towards
the stove where the Zouave was hidden,
pale, giddy, propped up against the
wall for fear of falling.