When I became conscious again I was lying on a table. Two men were
leaning over me; a third came up, holding a basin. There was an odor
of carbolic in the air.
The man with the basin made a horrid grimace when he caught my eye;
his face was a curious golden yellow, his eyes jet black, and at first
I took him for a fever phantom.
Then my bewildered eyes fastened on his scarlet fez, pulled down over
his left ear, the sky-blue Zouave jacket, with its bright-yellow
arabesques, the canvas breeches, leggings laced close over the thin
shins and ankles of an Arab. And I knew him for a soldier of African
riflemen, one of those brave children of the desert whom we called
"Turcos," and whose faith in the greatness of France has never
faltered since the first blue battalion of Africa was formed under the
eagles of the First Empire.
"Hallo, Mustapha!" I said, faintly; "what are they doing to me
now?"
The Turco's golden-bronze visage relaxed; he saluted me.
"Macache sabir," he said; "they picked a bullet from your spine, my
inspector."
An officer in the uniform of a staff-surgeon came around the table
where I was lying.
"Bon!" he exclaimed, eying me sharply through his gold-rimmed
glasses. "Can you feel your hind-legs now, young man?"