“Physicians? What should bring them _here_? It is death to enter these doors. Not the very Poles themselves, who were so loud in their acclamations when we came here six months ago--who called us their brothers, their deliverers--would dare to bring us now so much as a cup of cold water. Even the guards die who are stationed to watch us. We shall soon be left unguarded. Then we may go out free if we like--only none of us will be alive to go.” Henri covered his face. He was utterly crushed. He seemed no longer to feel, to care for anything--a numb chill despair lay like a weight of lead upon his heart. After what might have been, for aught he knew, a considerable time, he was aroused from his stupor by the sound of voices, and interested, in spite of himself, by what reached his ear. Some one was pleading earnestly with another in the accents of a soft musical tongue, which at first he took for Italian, like Guido’s, but he soon found that he could not understand the words spoken. However, the speakers presently relapsed into French, and then he easily gathered that one of them, a Spaniard, dying of the cruel hospital fever, was entreating his French comrade to write for him a letter of farewell to his wife. Evidently the feelings of the Frenchman were touched. Henri saw him tear a leaf from a book which he had with him, and write upon it at the dictation of the Spaniard, and in his language. “Though where is the use?” he heard him say to one near him in a lower tone. “Poor fellow! there is none to send it for him.” By-and-by another pitcher of snow was brought in by Henri’s first acquaintance, whose name was Pontet. When with some difficulty he had distributed the coveted refreshment among its many eager and agonized claimants, he said briefly, as he set down his pitcher, “I have news.” Heads were raised and eyes were turned towards him, but for the most part languidly; suffering had well-nigh killed desire and hope--even fear was scarcely felt. “The Emperor is come,” said Pontet. In that word there was a spell potent enough to arouse the dying. On every side exclamations arose--“Come back! Retaken the town! Stolen a march upon them all! Ah, what joy! What a triumph!” and one voice, weak but courageous, raised the old well-remembered cry, “Vive Napoléon!” “Hush, you fools!” said Pontet sharply. “Napoleon is far enough away. Do you think there is no other Emperor in the world? I am speaking of the Emperor Alexander.” Bitter was the disappointment, especially to dying hearts. Pontet came in for sundry curses, feeble but emphatic, and one sick man flung his cup at him. “How dare you raise our hopes only to dash them so cruelly?” he cried. “I had more to tell,” Pontet continued; “but if you care not to listen, I can spare my breath.” “Tell us, friend, tell us,” spoke two or three voices together.