“Messieurs, I am Vauvenargues of the _régiment du roi_,” he said. “We are encamped up the ravine, and there is no provision for men or horses----” By the light of the torch he recognized in the foremost officer M. de Broglie, whose bright hair gleamed above a pale face. “Maréchal,” he added, “I do not know how many will be alive by the morning.” “M. de Vauvenargues!” exclaimed the General, with a faint smile. “I am helpless--absolutely helpless. The food wagons have not come up--some, I believe, are lost.” The Marquis looked at him keenly; M. de Broglie was so careless in manner that the young officer suspected he was in truth deeply troubled. “Very well, Monsieur,” he answered. “I suppose we may look for some relief with the dawn?” “I think the orders will be to march at daybreak,” answered de Broglie. He touched his beaver and rode on, first adding gravely, “Pray God it does not snow again.” The Marquis remained holding the lantern and looking at the huddled shape of men and horses. A vast pity for the waste and unseen courage of war gripped his heart; none of these men complained, the horses dropped silently, the very mules died patiently--and what was the use of it? The war was wanton, unprovoked, expensive, and, so far, a failure; it had nothing heroic in its object, which was principally to satisfy the ambitious vanity of M. de Belleisle and the vague schemes of poor old well-meaning Cardinal Fleury who had never seen a battle-field in his life. The end seemed so inadequate to the sacrifice asked. The Marquis had seen the soldiers suffer and die in Prague with secret pangs, but this seemed a sheer devastation. It was impossible to stand still long in that cold; it was obvious that nothing could be done till the dawn. He pulled out his silver filigree watch, but it had stopped. Slowly he moved through the camp. Now the snow had ceased, several pitiful little fires were springing up in sheltered spots; and the men were moving about in their heavy wraps, and the surgeons coming in and out the groups of wounded and sick. A dog barked in a home-sick fashion; there was not a star visible. A Hussite pastor came within range of the Marquis’s lantern; he was carrying a limp child, and murmuring, in the strange Bohemian, what seemed a prayer. Soon the flickering orbit of light fell on a Catholic priest kneeling beside a dying man whose face was sharp and dull. He too prayed, but the familiar Latin supplications were as outside the Marquis’s sympathy as the Hussite’s appeal; he was tolerant to both, but his thoughts just touched them, no more. A strange haughty sadness came over his heart; he felt disdainful of humanity that could be so weak, so cruel, so patient. His lantern had evidently been near empty of oil, for it began to flicker and flare, and finally sank out. He put it from him and felt his way over a pile of rocks that rose up suddenly sheer and sharp.