Strange to say, the eccentric, passionate Constantine, at other times even wantonly cruel, was now so wrought upon by the example and influence of the brother he adored that he emulated his works of mercy, and had actually caught the hospital fever in his ministrations to the prisoners. Alexander himself seemed to bear a charmed life through every peril; for God fulfilled unto his servant the word upon which he had caused him to hope: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.” The Russian answered, “He is much better. Dr. Wylie has pronounced him out of danger. You know Dr. Wylie?” “Yes; he comes here often. He examined me one day, and said he would like to bleed me, only I was too weak.” The Russian could not suppress a smile. “You enjoyed a most unusual exemption,” he said. “Dr. Wylie’s lancet is not easily escaped. But I hope, as you _have_ been so fortunate, that you are growing stronger?” “I scarcely know. I ought to be; for I am not in pain, not hungry, not cold. All that is so strange now, so pleasant. But, pardon me, have I not seen your face before? Where can it have been?” “I do not remember yours,” was the answer. That was not wonderful; for Henri was a melancholy shadow of his former self, with ghastly, shrunken features, and frame reduced to a skeleton. The hardships of a very severe campaign had told also upon Ivan Pojarsky, but in a different way; he looked bronzed and weather-beaten, and much older than he really was. “I remember now,” Henri resumed after a pause. “I saw you during the Occupation, in a church in Moscow. After the service some Russians attacked me, and I might have been killed, but for that brave fellow with one hand. He appealed to you, and you protected me. Ah!” he added with a sigh, “if I had known then what sufferings were before me, I might have prayed you to plunge your sword into my breast!” “I am glad to find you amongst the living,” Ivan said kindly. “And that day,” mused Henri, “was little more than three months ago, while it is but two since we left Moscow. Were there ever two such months since the beginning of the world?” “Of suffering?--I think not,” said Ivan thoughtfully, as he took a seat beside him. “Of suffering for us, of glory for _you_. How you must triumph, you Russians! Five months ago Napoleon crossed your border with half a million of men; and now the miserable remains of that splendid host are dying in your hospitals, pensioners of your bounty. Surely such an overthrow was never seen since Pharaoh and his armies perished in the waters of the Red Sea!” “How we triumph, we Russians!” Ivan repeated. “Should you like to know how? Our Emperor said the other day in confidence to a friend, ‘This miserable campaign has cost me ten years of my life!’” “_Miserable!_ when it has been for him and his one long glorious victory!” “True; but the sufferings he has witnessed have well-nigh broken his heart.”