"Come, Chantel, chantez! Here's your song." He took the stool in
leap-frog fashion, and struck a droll simultaneous discord. "Come on.--
Well, then, catch me on the chorus!"


"Pour qu' j' finisse
Mon service
Au Tonkin je suis parti!"


To a discreet set of verses, he rattled a bravado accompaniment.
Presently Chantel moved to his side, and, with the same spirit, swung
into the chorus. The tumbled white figure on the couch clung to her
refuge, her bright hair shining below the girl's quiet, thoughtful face.
She was shaken with convulsive regularity.

In his riot of emotions, Rudolph found an over-mastering shame. A
picture returned,--the Strait of Malacca, this woman in the blue
moonlight, a Mistress of Life, rejoicing, alluring,--who was now the
single coward in the room. But was she? The question was quick and
revolting. As quickly, a choice of sides was forced on him. He
understood these people, recalled Heywood's saying, and with that, some
story of a regiment which lay waiting in the open, and sang while the
bullets picked and chose. All together: as now these half-dozen men
were roaring cheerfully:--


"Ma Tonkikí, ma Tonkikí, ma Tonkinoise,
Yen a d'autr's qui m' font les doux yeux,
Mais c'est ell' que j'aim' le mieux!"