His two reddish eyes rolled devouringly toward the blanket in its
waterproof roll. After a huge gulp of wine he said thickly (for his huge
moustache was crusted with saliva-tinted half-moistened shreds of food),
"You will have no use for that _machine la-bas_. They are going to take
everything away from you when you get there, you know. I could use it
nicely. I have wanted such a piece of rubber for a great while, in order
to make me a raincoat. Do you see?" (Gulp. Swallow.)

Here I had an inspiration. I would save the blanket-cover by drawing
these brigands' attention to myself. At the same time I would satisfy my
inborn taste for the ridiculous. "Have you a pencil?" I said. "Because I
am an artist in my own country, and will do your picture."

He gave me a pencil. I don't remember where the paper came from. I posed
him in a pig-like position, and the picture made him chew his moustache.
The apache thought it very droll. I should do his picture, too, at once.
I did my best; though protesting that he was too beautiful for my pencil,
which remark he countered by murmuring (as he screwed his moustache
another notch), "Never mind, you will try." Oh, yes, I would try all
right, all right. He objected, I recall, to the nose.

By this time the divine "deserter" was writhing with joy. "If you please,
Monsieur," he whispered radiantly, "it would be too great an honor, but
if you could--I should be overcome...."

Tears (for some strange reason) came into my eyes.

He handled his picture sacredly, criticised it with precision and care,
finally bestowed it in his inner pocket. Then we drank. It happened that