“The sufferings _of his enemies_,” said Henri, as tears filled his eyes. “They have so cast our own into the shade, that we ourselves almost forget them. Yet you must not think we have suffered nothing. Remember Moscow, our beautiful, our holy city; remember Borodino and the other battles in which the best blood of our country was poured out like water. Moreover, the ice-king has thinned our ranks as well as yours.” “Ah! not so fatally.” “No; we had wholesome food, and warm clothing, and care and comforts for the sick. As a rule, our invalids recovered, while yours died. Yes, oh yes, God has surely given us a great deliverance; would it had been at less cost to others! Look here, monsieur,”--Ivan took a silver medal, new and bright, from his neck, where it hung attached to a sky-blue ribbon. “The Czar has just given one of these to every man who has borne part in this winter’s campaign, from the general to the youngest recruit.” Henri examined it with interest. One side bore a Triangle surrounded by rays, and in its centre an Eye. “What does that mean?” he inquired. “It is, with us, the symbol of the Divine Presence,” Ivan answered, crossing himself. “It typifies the All-seeing and Ever-present--the Three in One. Beneath, you read ‘1812,’ the ever-memorable year when He himself interposed to deliver us. Now, turn the other side.” Henri did so, and saw, though he could not read, an inscription in the old Slavonic tongue. “That is, translated literally, ‘_Not us! not us! but His Name!_’ In your French Bible--the same which I use also--the verse reads thus:--‘Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.’” “Beautiful!” said Henri; and as he gave back the medal, he looked with interest at the brilliant young Guardsman, who spoke in such a simple, manly, unaffected way of God’s Word and Providence. “To-morrow the Czar leaves this,” said Ivan, replacing his medal. “We of the Chevalier Guard go also, of course.” Henri’s cry of distress made all the sick men in the ward raise their heads. “What is the matter?” Ivan asked compassionately. “The Emperor is going!” Henri said, or rather sobbed, for so weak was he that he could not restrain his tears. “You need not be afraid that will change anything, my poor friend. He has made arrangements for the safety and the comfort of all the prisoners. Henceforth they will want for nothing.” “I was not afraid of wanting food or shelter,” Henri said. “But, M. le Garde, when I lay in that horrible prison, dying in black despair, it was _his_ voice called me back from the gates of the grave, and showed me what the mercy of God was like. I would give half the little life left in me to hear that voice yet once again.” After a pause he added, with an effort to control himself, “Still, he stayed among us longer than we could have dared to hope. Is he going home now?” Ivan shook his head. “His work is not half done yet; nor ours,” he said.