We indulged in little conversation, reclining on the short grass, partaking of our cold meal.  The Chevalier attempted a sorry jest or two, yet soon subsided, discovering so unresponsive an audience.  It was plain to my mind the reflections of Madame were altogether with her father—­lying dead before this hour—­and this sad memory darkened even the delight of her husband’s safety.  His affected gayety of manner, and reckless speech, jarred more harshly upon her in this hour than perhaps ever before in her life.  Yet she made a pathetically brave effort to appear of good cheer, managing to eat with us, although it was easy to perceive the food choked her, while her eyes were blurred with tears resolutely held in restraint.  It was plain, I say, yet this is but my thought, for I question whether De Noyan, in his careless mood, observed her depression.  He was of a nature reflecting slightly on any save himself; past sorrow being quickly forgotten in any present gleam of sun.  As we thus ended this silent meal it occurred to me they might require slumber more than I, and I expressed my willingness to stand guard while they sought rest.  Perhaps my face told a tale of weariness easily read, for this proposal met immediate resistance.

“No, no, Geoffrey Benteen,” exclaimed Madame impulsively, “what have I done except sit quietly in a boat, waiting the passing of the hours?  You have been through strain and labor which wears out life.  It is you who will lie here upon my wrap, trusting me to call should need arise.”

“Hush, both of you,” impatiently burst in De Noyan, rising to his feet, and gazing across the sparkling water.  “A watch would have small value.  There is no safer spot on all the lower river than this; if the Dons discover it, no way of escape exists even were we all awake and ready.  To remain quiet is all we can do, and how can we accomplish that better than by going to sleep? Sacre!  I am a soldier, and not apt to make light of a guard, yet,” and he stifled a yawn, “I see no necessity here, nor could I be more completely played after a night of dancing at a Creole ball.”

Thus the matter was agreed upon, not altogether to my liking, but I yielded owing to too great weariness to argue.  At first Madame protested she could not sleep, yet finally consented to lie down.  As to myself my head had scarcely pressed the soft pillow of grass before I was lost in slumber.

A blessing of youth lies in the fact that sleep then truly gives rest.  The tired body responds so thoroughly to the gentle touch of slumber that the latter becomes a magician capable of restoring every faculty to complete power.  It was thus I rested motionless, and it was nearly evening before I stirred, although the sun must have been streaming directly across my upturned face for hours.  I awoke to perfect consciousness of our situation, as naturally as ever in a bed at home.  Dimly impressed that some unusual noise had aroused me, I immediately sat