No food was sent them, and it was too dark for any search to be made. It was impossible to find a spot dry enough to light a fire on. The men huddled together under the rocks and rested with their heads on their saddles within the feeble protection of the guns and carts. The officers sat beneath a projecting point of rock, over which a canvas had been hastily dragged, and muffled themselves in their cloaks and every scrap of clothing they could find; behind them their horses were fastened, patient and silent. “I am sorry,” said M. de Vauvenargues, “that there are so many women and feeble folk with us.” “Another of M. de Belleisle’s blunders,” answered the Colonel calmly. “He should have forced them to remain in Prague.” “There was never a Protestant,” remarked Lieutenant d’Espagnac, “who would remain in Prague at the mercy of the Hungarians.” The other officers were silent; it seemed to them vexatious that this already difficult retreat should be further hampered by the presence of some hundred of refugees--men, women, and children, French travellers, foreign inhabitants of Prague, Bavarians who wished to return to their own country, Hussites who were afraid of being massacred by the Pandours. M. de Vauvenargues had it particularly in his mind; he had seen more than one dead child on the route since they left Prague. Eger was still many leagues off and both the weather and road increasing in severity and difficulty. “I wonder if Belleisle knew what he was doing,” he remarked thoughtfully. M. d’Espagnac laughed; his soaring spirits were not in the least cast down. He had just managed, with considerable difficulty, to light a lantern, which he hung from a dry point of rock. Its sickly ray illuminated the group and showed features a little white and pinched above the close wrapped cloaks; but Georges d’Espagnac bloomed like a winter rose. There was no trace of fatigue on his ardent countenance; he leant back against the cold grey rock under the lantern and began to hum an aria of Glück’s that had been fashionable when he last saw Paris. His hair was loosened from the ribbon and half freed from powder; it showed in streaks of bright brown through the pomade. “There will be no moving till dawn,” said M. de Biron with an air of disgust. The snow was beginning to invade their temporary shelter. Another officer spoke impatiently. “There must be food--many of our men have not eaten since they started. How many men does M. de Belleisle hope to get to Eger in this manner?” There was no answer: the blast of heavy snow chilled speech. Some faint distant shouting and cries were heard, the neighing of a horse, the rumble of a cart, then silence.