There was no wind, yet so intense was the cold that it seemed to pierce him through and through. He felt as though he were in a bath of ice. He determined to keep moving, to walk on straight before him as long as he had strength to do so. He supposed that he was still upon a road of some kind, because when he diverged to the right or to the left the snow became deeper, while if he kept his direct course it did not reach above his ankles. Onwards he toiled, and still onwards, weary and footsore, yet not quite despairing. He knew well that if he yielded to his ever-increasing fatigue so far as to lie down again, he should rise no more. It seemed as if years had passed since he parted with his comrades, a lifetime since he quitted Moscow; and as to his old happy life in France, _that_ belonged to another and earlier stage of existence, almost beyond his recollection. Red rose the sun over the snowy landscape, to sink again, after the brief wintry day, in clouds of purple and amber. Once more the stars came out, and still Henri toiled on. But his strength was well-nigh spent; he was ready to sink from fatigue, and his little store of meat and vodka had long since been exhausted. “After all,” he thought, “it is hopeless. As well die first as last.--But what is this? Have the stars come down upon the ground? or whence are those lights I see in the distance?” He tried to collect his failing senses and to think. Could this be a town he was approaching? No; the lights were not numerous enough. Perhaps it might be a Russian village? Scarcely; for that the lights seemed too far apart,--though, even if it were, he would take his chance and go forward. Better to fall, like some of his comrades, beneath the axes of the mujiks, than to perish with cold and hunger in the trackless wilderness. Suddenly he cried aloud, making his voice ring over the snow, “Bivouac fires!” A gush of joy, long unknown to him, filled his heart, bringing with it, from its very intensity, a kind of momentary pain, as the warmth for which he was longing would bring a tingling pain to his half-frozen limbs. “Bivouac fires!” he cried once more, with a glad, weak voice. “I shall see the faces of my comrades; I shall hear their voices. Thank God!” Hope and joy lent new strength to his weary feet. As he drew nearer to the lights, he saw that the snow was trampled by footsteps and crushed by wheels. And then the thought occurred to him, “If these should be our enemies? If I should find myself in the midst of Russians?” But as the cheerful blaze of the nearest fire grew clearer and more distinct, and he saw figures moving around it, fear and hesitation vanished. He felt nothing but a wild longing to get close to it, which grew every moment more intense. Running, slipping, staggering along as best he could, at last he threw himself on the ground before the fire, in the very midst of the group that surrounded it.