She ate alone on a
wagon-seat, and when twilight fell she climbed into her wagon,
grateful that it was high off the ground and so inclosed her from
all except sound.
Darkness came; the fire died down; the low voices of Durade and his
men, and of callers who visited them, flowed continuously.
Then, presently, there arose a strange murmur, unlike any sound
Allie had ever heard. It swelled into a low, distant roar. She was
curious about it. Peeping out of her wagon-cover she saw where the
darkness flared to yellow with a line of lights--torches or lanterns
or fires. Crossing and re-crossing these lights were black objects,
in twos and threes and dozens. And from this direction floated the
strange, low roar. Suddenly she realized. It was the life of the
camp. Hundreds and thousands of men were there together, and as the
night advanced the low roar rose and fell, and lulled away to come
again--strange, sad, hideous, mirthful. For a long time Allie could
not sleep.
Next morning Durade called her. When she unlaced the canvas flaps,
it was to see the sun high and to hear the bustle of work all about
her.
Durade brought her breakfast and gave her instructions. While he was
about in the daytime she might come out and do what she could to
amuse herself; but when he was absent or at night she must be in her
wagon-tent, laced in, and she was not to answer any call.
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