“No, I cannot see,” answered Henri in a weary voice. “Féron, you have been very good to me. But it is no use. You must let me go.” “I shall do no such thing. Here, my boy, take a pull at this;” and he put a flask filled with vodka to the lips of his friend. “Now you can see a little better,” he said with a laugh, as the stimulant brought a momentary colour to the pale cheek of Henri. “Can’t you hear too? Listen! there are wheels coming near us, and horse-hoofs. God grant it may be stores of some kind, and if so”--Féron paused a moment and set his teeth resolutely--“the Old Guard themselves, with the Emperor at their head, shall not keep them from us.” The wheels were already quite close, else under the circumstances they could not have heard them at all. A carriage drawn by four horses, and attended by outriders, came dashing by. It had only one occupant, a general of division, wrapped from head to foot in rich furs; but every available spot was crammed with packages and bottles. Some of the men sprang towards it, and clinging to the back or the sides, begged in piteous accents for bread, meat, spirits, even a little tobacco--anything “Monsieur le Général” would be good enough to spare them. The coachman and the outriders had to use their whips pretty freely to get rid of them. It was only surprising that they did not take what they wanted by force; but either the lack of courage and mutual understanding, or perhaps some remains of military discipline, prevented an outbreak of open violence. “Fools for their pains!” said Féron bitterly. “They might know by this time that the general _never_ has anything to spare for the soldier. But I am glad he is gone, for the sight of his luxuries made me mad. May his horses break their knees in the next snow-drift! Sure to do it before long. That’s one comfort!” “And then,” said a comrade, “perhaps we may overtake him, and get horses, stores, and all. What a supper we should have!” “Ay,” observed another, “_his_ horses are very unlike the last we supped upon. Poor brutes! they were little more than skin and bone.” “Féron,” asked a third, “are there no horses in this accursed country--no men, no food, no anything?” “Not much, I suppose, at the best of times. But remember, my lad, we marched over this very ground ourselves a few months ago, and wasted and destroyed all we could find.” It was too true. In this respect they were filled with the fruit of their own devices; their wanton acts of pillage and devastation recoiled upon their own heads. “Féron,” murmured once more the faint voice of Henri, “I can go no further. I _must_ lie down and rest.” “Monsieur Henri, if you lie down on that ground, you rise never more.” “I know it; but I can bear up no longer. My sight is gone, my limbs are failing. Dear Féron, let me go.” And in spite of the sustaining arm of his friend, he staggered and fell. Féron bent over him, entreating him to rise, and offering his help.