“I have made a friend amongst the guards who knows a little French, and is disposed to be communicative. He says the Czar has appointed General St. Priest governor and guardian of all the prisoners.” “St. Priest!--Who is he?” “A Frenchman in the service of Russia. _Because_ he is a Frenchman this office has been given him. My comrades, this looks well.” “Nothing looks well now but the grave,” said the man who cried “Vive Napoléon.” “Pontet,” he continued, “I don’t think much of your news. St. Priest may be a Frenchman, but then he must be a pretty rascal, to fight against France.” “Well, we shall see.” “What is that noise?” asked Henri, as the loud rattling of an iron chain was heard. “They are only swinging the great lamp up to its place, where it hangs from the roof. How early they are lighting it to-night! It will be daylight in the court for another hour.” After this Henri fell into a troubled, uneasy sleep. When he awoke, there was a general stir around him, and a murmur of suppressed excitement. “What is the matter?” he asked of Pontet, who was sitting near him, resting his head on his hand. He looked up to answer the question. “The guards say Monsieur de St. Priest is coming to visit us.” “He must be a brave man,” said Henri. “Ay de mi!” murmured the Spaniard. “If I _dare_ but ask him to send that letter! Ah, Teresa mia!” Tears stole into his dying eyes as that beloved face arose before him in its dark, well-remembered beauty; and once more his little children seemed to climb about his knees, while the orange-tree beside his cottage door shed its fragrant blossoms over him. “Hush!” said those around--“hush! here comes Monsieur le Général.” St. Priest came slowly, threading his way through the thick ranks of sick men stretched upon the ground. His look was absorbed and anxious; some great care seemed to oppress him. Pontet whispered, “See how he is leaving the work to his aide-de-camp.” For all observed that the companion of St. Priest paused continually, and, bending low over the sufferers, spoke in turn to each, patiently waiting for an answer. Those near him noticed also with surprise that Frenchmen, Poles, and Germans were addressed with equal fluency, each in his own tongue. As he approached, the good-natured Frenchman who had written the Spaniard’s letter for him whispered, “Try the aide-de-camp. He looks kind.” Thus encouraged, the dying man stretched out his worn and fevered hand. “For the love of God, Monsieur l’Aide de camp,” he prayed in his broken French, “take this letter and send it for me. It is my last farewell to my dear wife.” “That letter shall reach its destination,” was the answer, uttered in a tone of deep feeling; and stooping over the prostrate form, the speaker added some gentle words of hope and consolation.