The baby stirred and wailed dismally; in a moment Carola had it caught up and pressed to her heart. The sick man whispered and moaned, then suddenly sat up in violent delirium. “I will not see any more die!” he cried. “No more, do you hear? These people might have _done_ something--what were they born for? How much farther? No food--no rest. How much farther? How far to Provence?” The Marquis started; he was himself Provençal, and had not known M. d’Espagnac came from his country; the word stirred agony in the heart he controlled with such difficulty. “Provence!” repeated the lieutenant. “They will want news of me, you know, Monsieur. I must tell them--the quest of glory----” Again the words stabbed M. de Vauvenargues. “Georges,” he murmured, bending over him, “perhaps you have attained the quest.” M. d’Espagnac laughed again. “What a jest if I should die!” he muttered wildly. “My heart is quite cold, it is freezing my blood. Perhaps I am in my grave, and this is some one else speaking. How far to Eger?--how long to the Judgment Day?” “I am with you, Georges d’Espagnac,” said the Marquis. “We are alive.” He seemed to hear that. “Where?” he demanded. “On the heights,” said M. de Vauvenargues. It was now quite dark save for the light of the wagon lamp that fell over the straw-coloured silk hangings of M. de Belleisle, the beautiful anguished face framed in the gorgeous hair, the woman in her barbaric splendour clasping the feeble child, and the slender figure of the Marquis in his blue and silver uniform; it glimmered, too, on the pieces of the Maréchal’s dessert service, and the sparkle of them caught Carola’s eye. “Do you travel with such things?” she asked. “Our nobles sleep on the ground, and drink from horn----” “M. de Belleisle must travel as a Maréchal de France,” answered the Marquis. “But these things seem foolish now.” A great giddy sickness was on him, and a distaste of life that could be so wretched; the spirit within him was weary of the miserable flesh that suffered so pitifully. “Give me my sword,” said M. d’Espagnac. “I am starting out on a quest. Do you hear? Jesu, have mercy upon me!” Carola rose and walked up and down with the child. “You are Catholic?” she asked. “No,” answered the Marquis. “An atheist?” she questioned. “An ugly word, Mademoiselle”--he gave a little sigh; “but yes--perhaps.” “I am sorry for you,” said Carola; at which he smiled. “But your friend?” she added. “We have no priest!” She seemed distressed at the thought. “His soul does not need shriving,” replied M. de Vauvenargues. But the words seemed to have penetrated the lieutenant’s clouded consciousness; he clamoured for a priest, for the last Sacrament, for the Eucharist. The Marquis caught him in his arms and held him strongly. “None of that matters,” he said with power. “You are free of all that--upon the heights.” The voice calmed M. d’Espagnac; he rested his head on his captain’s breast, and shuddered into silence.