“No--I meant in life,” was the ardent answer. “Die--to die!” The young voice was scornful of the word. “I mean to live for France, for glory. What does it matter to me how long I stay in Prague--for what cause the war is? I march under the French flag, and that is enough. I fight for France--I am on the quest of glory, Monsieur.” He paused abruptly; M. de Biron took a fan of long eagle feathers from the bench and fanned the dying charcoal into a blaze. “A long quest,” he said, not unkindly. He was thinking that he had been ten years in the army himself, and only obtained his colonelcy by reason of his rank and great influence at Court; Georges d’Espagnac, of the provincial nobility, with no friend near the King, had no bright prospects. A little silence fell, then Luc de Clapiers spoke. “A short or easy quest would be scarcely worth the achieving.” M. d’Espagnac smiled brilliantly and rose. “It is splendid to think there are difficulties in the world when one knows one can overcome them--fight, overcome, achieve--chase the goddess, and clasp her at last! To ride over obstacles and mount on opposition--nothing else is life!” His dark hazel eyes unclosed widely; he looked as magnificent, as confident, as his words sounded. His cloak had fallen apart, and the last blaze of the charcoal flame gave a red glow to the silver pomp of his uniform; his face, his figure, his pose were perfect in human beauty, human pride transformed by spiritual exaltation; his soul lay like holy fire in his glance. So might St. Sebastian have looked when he came the second time to deliver himself to martyrdom. “I give you joy of your faith,” said M. de Biron. “Oh, Monsieur, you shall give me joy of my achievement one day. I know that I am going to succeed. God did not put this passion in men for them to waste it.” He spoke without embarrassment as he spoke without boasting, and with a pleasing personal modesty, as if his pride was for humanity and not for himself. Luc de Clapiers was looking at him with eyes that shone with understanding and sympathy. “Keep that faith of yours, d’Espagnac,” he said softly; “it is the only thing in the world worth living for. Indeed, how could we live but for the hope of glory--some day?” “I trust you may both die a Maréchal de France,” remarked M. de Biron. The charcoal sank out beyond recovery; a sudden cold blast of wind blew through the upper part of the window that had been smashed by an Austrian shell. M. de Biron rose with a shudder. “It is warmer in the guardroom,” he declared. Luc de Clapiers spoke to the Lieutenant. “Will you come with me to the church?” The young man answered readily. “Certainly, Monsieur.” The Duke put his hand on the shoulder of the other captain. “I do believe”--he smiled--“that Luc is on the same quest of glory.” CHAPTER II THE CHAPEL OF ST. WENCESLAS