“‘Take this gold, these jewels!’ she exclaimed; ‘this warm cloak is yours, but let my brother live!’ And, with the quickness of thought, she tore the rich chain from her neck and the furs from her shoulders, leaving her arms and delicate frame exposed with slight covering to the rigour of that horrible climate. The soldier gazed at her for a moment with fixed and straining eyes, then his arms slowly sank; letting the musket fall to the ground, he pressed both hands to his face, and broke out in loud weeping and whimpering. By this time Ludwig came up, and he and Bernard lifted up Bianca, who was still kneeling on the frozen ground, and extending her arms with the proffered gifts. “‘Wild beast that I am!’ suddenly exclaimed the stranger; ‘no, I cannot survive this shame. Forgive me; you knew me once a better man, before suffering drove me mad! But no matter; I know my duty.’ “He stooped to pick up his musket. Bernard kept his eyes fixed upon him, and racked his memory for the features, which, wild and distorted though they now were, still seemed familiar to him. “‘Where have I known you?’ he asked, as the man resumed his erect position. “‘I don’t wonder you’ve forgotten me,’ was the gloomy reply; ‘I have forgotten myself. Alive, I am no longer worthy of the Order!’ cried he wildly, tearing from his rags the ribbon of the Legion of Honour and throwing it upon the snow. ‘I will try to earn it again, that you may lay it upon my body. I am my own judge, and I show no favour.’ “Setting the butt of his musket firmly on the earth, he pressed his breast against the muzzle and touched the trigger with his foot. The piece went off, and its unfortunate owner fell heavily to the ground. “‘Gracious God!’ exclaimed Bianca, sinking senseless into Ludwig’s arms. “Bernard was at the side of the fallen man, supporting his head. A last spark of life still remained. ‘If you get to France,’ gasped the suicide, ‘a word to my wife and children—Sergeant Ferrand—of Laon,’ and the spirit departed. As he closed his eyes, Bernard remembered him. It was the same Sergeant Ferrand whose humanity saved him and Ludwig from perishing during their imprisonment at Smolensko. Military honour was the condition of the veteran’s existence; he thought himself degraded beyond redemption by the murderous aggression to which misery, pain, and despair, had driven him; a woman had surpassed him in courage, and that was more than he could bear. A rigorous judge, he had pronounced his own doom, and executed it with his own hand. “Deeply moved, Bernard knelt beside the body; he gathered up the scrap of tarnished ribbon which the departed soldier had prized above all earthly goods, and laid it upon the breast of the corpse. “‘Who shall deprive you of it?’ he said. ‘May it adorn you beyond the grave, amidst the throng of the valiant who have preceded you!’ “And they continued their journey, for the times admitted not of delay.”