How long this dreary life in death continued Henri never knew. But it had an end at last, like all suffering on this side of the grave. One day he found himself in what was evidently the melancholy and abandoned ruin of a once beautiful pleasure-ground. The pitiless frost had done its part to blight and to destroy; but the yet more pitiless hand of man had left its deeper traces. A castle, once fit for a royal residence, but now dismantled and partly burned, completed the picture of desolation. All at once, as revealed by a lightning flash, Henri recalled the past. Could this indeed be Zakret--the splendid summer residence, with beautiful gardens, which the Czar had purchased just before the war? Only six months had passed since Henri wandered with genuine pleasure amidst its shady walks, and admired its magnificent conservatories filled with rare exotics, its terraces gay with the bloom of a thousand summer flowers. He even remembered the exasperation he had felt at the conduct of his fellow-soldiers, who wasted all that wealth of beauty with reckless, malicious hands, because it belonged to their enemy the Czar. “He is well avenged,” thought Henri. “We did not dream that he would have proved himself so strong.” Another thought came then. Zakret was close to Vilna, the goal for the present of his weary wanderings. The idea lent his worn frame a momentary strength; he would get up, and go there immediately. He had thrown himself upon a seat--some broken masonry belonging to what had once been a beautiful fountain--but now he rose quickly, and tried to walk. But the effort proved too much for him; he tottered, slipped upon the frozen ground, fell, and utterly lost consciousness. When he recovered from his long and death-like swoon, he found everything changed around him. Instead of the wintry sky, he saw above him a lofty vaulted roof. The light was dim, but sufficient to reveal the scene. The floor was covered, or rather crowded with prostrate forms; in some places they lay in heaps. He stretched out his hand, and touched the form nearest him; it was cold as ice, and in his horror at the thought that he was surrounded by the dead, he uttered a weak, agonized cry. Several heads were raised at this, and eyes, bright with fever or dim with the mists of approaching death, gazed at him in a kind of dull surprise. “Where am I?” he asked feebly. Some one dressed in a ragged French uniform, and carrying a large pitcher filled with snow, approached the place where he lay. “In prison,” he said. “They brought you in a while ago with some other sick men.” “Are you a warder?” pursued Henri. “You insult me! Can’t you see my uniform? I am, like yourself, a prisoner and a Frenchman. But those of us who are still passably strong are allowed to go down to the court and gather snow for the rest.”