The Marquis had seen many such trees in Bohemia, and there was nothing extraordinary that he should, unwittingly, have slept under one; yet his breath was shaken at the sight of the tall, unspoilt beauty of this common silver fir with the sun in the upper branches, and he could not tell why. He supported himself against the trunk and closed his eyes for a moment; his body was stabbed with pain, and his head seemed filled with restless waves of sensation. He had never been robust, and it had often been a keen trouble to him that he could not support hardship like some men, like most soldiers. He set his teeth and with an effort opened his eyes. The first sight they met was that of a woman riding a white horse coming round the fir tree. He knew her instantly for the Countess Koklinska, and she evidently knew him, for she reined up her horse, which she rode astride like a man, and looked down at him with a direct glance of recognition. “I have forgotten your name,” she said, “but I remember you, Monsieur. You are ill,” she added. He blushed that she should see his weakness, and mastered himself sufficiently to step to her stirrup. “I found a lodging in Pürgitz,” she said, “and food; but there has been great suffering among your men.” Her attire was the same as when he had seen her last--barbaric and splendid, dark furs, scarlet powdered with gold, turquoise velvet and crimson satin; her face was pinched and sallow, but her eyes were clear and expressive under the thick long lashes. “I wish we had no women with us,” said the Marquis faintly. She dismounted before he had divined her intentions, and drew a silver flask from her sash, and held it out to him in her white fur gloved hands. “Only a little poor wine,” she murmured humbly, and she had the cup ready and the red wine poured out. He thanked her gravely and drank with distaste; their heavy gloves touched as he handed the horn goblet back to her and again their eyes met. In the pale, clear winter morning he looked dishevelled, pallid, and sad, but his eyes were steady, and held the same look as had lightened them in the chapel of St. Wenceslas. “If there are no more storms, we shall do very well,” he remarked quietly. “I think there are no more than twenty leagues to Eger, and M. de Saxe took this route last year with but little loss.” “Not in this weather,” returned the Countess Carola. “And M. de Belleisle is not Maurice de Saxe.” Both her remarks were true, but the Marquis would not confirm them; he bowed gravely, as if displeased, and passed down the rocky path. She remained beside the silver fir looking after him. The cold clouds had closed over the feeble sun and the wind blew more icy; all the sounds of a moving camp came with a sharp clearness through the pure, glacial air.