“They might attack us,” she finished, seeing he did not comprehend. He took his pistols from his belt and laid them on the ground beside him. “I am armed,” he answered. The Countess rose stiffly; her thick fur-lined cloak fell apart and showed the bright colours of her dress beneath, the tags and braids of gold, the vermilion sash and ruffled laces. “It is strange that I should live and my brother die, is it not?” she said wearily. “He fell from his horse and struck his head on a broken gun. Then he died very quickly.” There was dried blood on her fur gloves and on the bosom of her shirt. She went to the unconscious child and knelt beside her, moved the wrappings from the pallid, dead-coloured face, and touched the cheek. “I think she will never wake again--but your friend?” She glanced at the Marquis, who was standing looking down at M. d’Espagnac. “I can only watch him die,” he said. The Countess drew from her bosom the flask she had offered to M. de Vauvenargues four days before. “This was filled this morning,” she explained, “and I cannot take it for it makes me giddy.” She moved to the side of M. d’Espagnac and raised his head tenderly and forced the spirits between his teeth. “I think there is a lantern in the wagon,” said the Marquis, and went to find it. The dark was now so thick that they could scarcely see each other’s features, but he found the lantern and flint and tinder and lit it, and the long yellow beams were some comfort in the overwhelming sadness of the night. The effect of the brandy on M. d’Espagnac was sudden and almost terrible: he sat up amid the tumbled rolls of silk, and his cheeks were red with fever and his eyes open in a forced fashion. He appeared clear-headed and master of his senses; his glance rested on the Polish lady and then on the Marquis. “You should not have waited for me,” he muttered. “On--on to Eger. I shall soon be well.” He raised his wasted, bleeding hands to his brilliant hair. “I am sick from seeing people die,” he said. “It could never have been meant. O God, what have we done?” He crossed himself. “This is war, Georges,” answered the Marquis. “Remember the chapel of St. Wenceslas and the words we spoke there.” M. d’Espagnac shuddered and fell back on to the cloaks the Marquis had piled under his head. Carola took his poor torn hand. “Rest a little longer,” she said, “and then we can continue on our way.” Save for a few stragglers, the army had passed now. The isolation seemed to increase with the dark, and the greedy howls of the wolves came nearer. The lieutenant struggled up again and cried impetuously, “I am not going to die! That would be folly, for I have done nothing yet.” “No, you shall not die,” answered Carola, and grasped his hand tighter. The Marquis was on the other side of him. Georges d’Espagnac laughed. “You must not wait for me, Monsieur.” Then he closed his eyes, and shiver after shiver shook his limbs.