“My sister,” said the young Pole, “is used to the cold, for she has lived all her life in Russia.” The lady lifted a face pale with fatigue and shadowed with anxiety; her black hair was very unbecomingly twisted tight round her head, and she wore a fur cap of fox’s skin drawn down to her ears. “I have a good reason to wish to hasten to Paris,” she said. “I am summoned there by the Queen.” She made an impatient gesture to the Bohemian who conducted them, and with a weary little bow followed him through the small door that had been cut in the high blank wall. With a more elaborate courtesy her companion followed her, his heavy tread echoing in the stillness even after the door had closed behind him. “I wish I were bound for Paris,” remarked the young Colonel, M. de Biron. One of the captains lightly echoed his wish; the other glanced at the lieutenant and said in a very pleasing voice-- “No, M. le Duc, wish for a battle, which would suit us all better.” M. de Biron smiled. “You are very sanguine, Luc.” “How sanguine, Monsieur?” “You speak as if war was what it used to be in the days of Amathis de Gaul: forays, single combats, pitched battles, one cause--reward, honour, glory.” The faint smile deepened on Luc de Clapiers’ face; he made no reply, but the lieutenant flushed quickly and answered-- “Pardon me, Monsieur, but it seems to me like that still.” The young Duke seated himself on one of the wooden benches and crossed his slender feet. “Even Luc,” he said, with an accent of slight amusement, “cannot make this a crusade. We do not know exactly what we fight for--we respect our enemies as much as our allies; we think the Ministers fools, and know the generals jealous of each other. The country, that never wanted the war, is being taxed to death to pay for it; we”--he shrugged elegantly--“are ruining ourselves to keep ourselves in weariness and idleness. We get no thanks. I see not the least chance of promotion for any of us.” “But, Monsieur,” cried the lieutenant eagerly, “you forget glory.” “Glory!” repeated M. de Biron lightly. Luc de Clapiers flashed a profound look at him in silence; the other captain laughed. “We are none of us,” he remarked, “like to get much glory in Prague.” “Oh, hear d’Espagnac on that,” returned the Duke half mockingly; “he hath not yet awakened from fairy tales.” The exquisite young face of Georges d’Espagnac blushed into a beautiful animation. “A soldier,” he said, “may find glory anywhere, Monsieur le Duc.” “In death, for instance,” replied M. de Biron, with a whimsical gravity. “Yes, one might find that--any day.”