"As we paid no attention to his shouts, he got up, cursing shockingly,
and went away to another fire. Presently the French officer became
easier. We propped him up against the log and sat silent on each side
of him till the bugles started their call at the first break of day. The
big flame, kept up all through the night, paled on the livid sheet
of snow, while the frozen air all round rang with the brazen notes of
cavalry trumpets. The Frenchman's eyes, fixed in a glassy stare, which
for a moment made us hope that he had died quietly sitting there between
us two, stirred slowly to right and left, looking at each of our faces
in turn. Tomassov and I exchanged glances of dismay. Then De Castel's
voice, unexpected in its renewed strength and ghastly self-possession,
made us shudder inwardly.

"'_Bonjour, Messieurs_.'

"His chin dropped on his breast. Tomassov addressed me in Russian.

"'It is he, the man himself...' I nodded and Tomassov went on in a tone
of anguish: 'Yes, he! Brilliant, accomplished, envied by men, loved by
that woman--this horror--this miserable thing that cannot die. Look at
his eyes. It's terrible.'

"I did not look, but I understood what Tomassov meant. We could do
nothing for him. This avenging winter of fate held both the fugitives
and the pursuers in its iron grip. Compassion was but a vain word before
that unrelenting destiny. I tried to say something about a convoy being
no doubt collected in the village--but I faltered at the mute glance
Tomassov gave me. We knew what those convoys were like: appalling mobs
of hopeless wretches driven on by the butts of Cossacks' lances, back to