The Marquis looked up to see Carola with empty arms. “Where is the child?” he asked. “Dead,” she answered, in a tired voice. “And I have laid her under the wagon with my crucifix. I think she was a Hussite, but perhaps God will forgive her, for she was too young to know error.” “Do you suppose God’s charity less than yours, Mademoiselle?” answered M. de Vauvenargues gently. “You sheltered a heretic child all day--will not God shelter her through all eternity?” She looked at him strangely. “I feel very weary,” she said; “the wolves sound nearer.” The Marquis thought of the two dead mules and the woman’s corpse that Carola had not seen; he was stretching out his hand for his pistol when d’Espagnac lifted his head. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, and his voice was sweet and sane; “I fear I incommode you and Mademoiselle.” He smiled and raised himself on one arm. “You must not stay for me. I am very well. Dying, I know--but very well.” Carola came closer to him. “I know the prayers of my church--shall I say them for you?” He faintly shook his head. “Thank you for your thought. But we are so far from churches.” He was silent again, and the Marquis noticed with a shudder that the great snowflakes were beginning to fall once more. “How can we endure it?” murmured Carola, and the tears clung to her stiff lids. M. d’Espagnac moved again. “There are some letters in my pockets--if you should return to France----” “Yes, yes,” said the Marquis. The lieutenant gave a little cough, and seemed to suddenly fall asleep; they wrapped him up as well as they could and chafed his brow and hands. The snow increased and drifted round the wagon and began to cover them softly. Presently, as there was no further sound, the Marquis held a scrap of the feather trimming of his hat before d’Espagnac’s lips and slipped his hand inside the fine cold shirt. They discovered that he was dead; had evidently drawn his last breath on the word “France,” and resigned his soul without a sigh or struggle. It was horrible and incredible to the Marquis in those first minutes; why should he, never robust, and a girl of delicate make survive, and Georges d’Espagnac, so young, strong, and full of vitality, die as easily as the ailing child? He bent low over the sunken face, and the loose strands of his hair touched the frozen snow. “The Quest of Glory,” said Carola, in a strange voice. The Marquis looked up at her, and his eyes were full of light. “Yes, Mademoiselle,” he said simply, and drew the heavy cloak over the face of Georges d’Espagnac. “A joyful quest!” she cried, in a hollow voice. “Yes,” he said again, “a joyful quest.”