"There," he said, laying a small parcel on the table, "there is my
daily ration. Two ounces of horse, one ounce of salt beef, the same
as yesterday. One does not know how long we shall be treated so
generously. Let us keep the beef--we may come to want some day."
And giving a hoarse laugh, he lifted a board in the floor, beneath
which he hoarded his stores.
"Will you cook your dejeuner yourself," asked Desiree. "I have
something else for my father."
"And what have you?" asked Barlasch curtly; "you are not keeping
anything hidden from me?"
"No," answered Desiree, with a laugh at the sternness of his face,
"I will give him a piece of the ham which was left over from last
night."
"Left over?" echoed Barlasch, going close to her and looking up into
her face, for she was two inches taller than he. "Left over? Then
you did not eat your supper last night?"
"Neither did you eat yours, for it is there under the floor."
Barlasch turned away with a gesture of despair. He sat down in the
high armchair that stood on the hearth, and tapped on the floor with
one foot in pessimistic thought.
"Ah! the women, the women," he muttered, looking into the
smouldering fire. "Lies--all lies. You said that your supper was
very nice," he shouted at her over his shoulder.
"So it was," answered she gaily, "so it is still."
Barlasch did not rise to her lighter humour. He sat in reflection
for some minutes.
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