“O Monsieur Henri, think of your mother--of your sister, Mademoiselle Clémence. If you hope ever to see their sweet faces again, rouse yourself, exert all your strength.” But already Henri seemed half-asleep. A look of rest stole over his worn features, and his eyes were closed. Opening them for a moment, he murmured, “Féron--my mother--Clémence. Ask them to forgive me. Good-bye, dear Féron. God bless thee!” The others meanwhile continued their march. In those terrible days the fall of a comrade scarcely made a Frenchman turn his head. Seppel called to Féron, “Come along, man! For what are you lingering?” To stay behind would be to share the fate of Henri, not to rescue him. Féron turned sadly away; but after taking two or three steps, turned back once more, murmuring, “What a fool I am! No good to him, and a sore loss to me. Still, if he _should_ awake, even for a moment.” Stooping down, he slipped his flask of vodka into the benumbed hand of Henri. “Adieu, comrade,” he said. “If ever I see France again, I will tell thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence.” He rejoined his comrades, and marched on; but as long as it continued in sight, he could not help looking back, every now and then, to that black spot in the snow where a comrade had lain down to die. “Soon enough,” he thought, “it will be covered with white, and all trace of my poor friend gone for ever. Perhaps _I_ may be the next--who knows?” But at least there was one sufferer unconscious of suffering now. A feeling of utter peace, of deep content, unknown for many days, steeped the weary senses of Henri. He seemed to be sinking into the heart of a profound and dreamless sleep. Pain and fatigue--cold and hunger of body--aching, feverish unrest of spirit--all had ceased together. The last sounds that reached his dulled ear before he passed into unconsciousness were the words of Féron, “Thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence.” And once again those beloved faces drew near--bent over him--glimmered faintly and yet more faintly--at last vanished into air. But he did not even know that they had vanished. All was oblivion now. Assuredly never again in this world would Henri de Talmont have awakened, had not a sudden thrill of agony called him roughly back to life. He started up to wrestle with a great half-savage wolf-dog, which had fixed its sharp fangs in his arm. Pain and desperation lent him a momentary strength, and clenching his hand, he dealt his antagonist a blow between the eyes that sent it howling away over the snow. Then he picked up Féron’s flask, and having thanked in his heart that generous friend, he drank some of its contents, which seemed to infuse new life into his frame.