The hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs.

His revolver bruised his leg, and the final straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and carping:--"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I ?....

But you had to go to Africa!....

Well now you're on your way, how do you like it ?" What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, eating, singing, playing cards.

The society in the Zouave was as cheerful as it was diverse.