discernible trace of womanhood in that bundle of rags and linen, and
the cold was mightier than the love in a woman's heart.

Then for the major the husband and wife came to be like two distant
dots seen through the thick veil that the most irresistible kind of
slumber spread over his eyes. It all seemed to be part of a dream--the
leaping flames, the recumbent figures, the awful cold that lay in wait
for them three paces away from the warmth of the fire that glowed for
a little while. One thought that could not be stifled haunted Philip
--"If I go to sleep, we shall all die; I will not sleep," he said to
himself.

He slept. After an hour's slumber M. de Sucy was awakened by a hideous
uproar and the sound of an explosion. The remembrance of his duty, of
the danger of his beloved, rushed upon his mind with a sudden shock.
He uttered a cry like the growl of a wild beast. He and his servant
stood upright above the rest. They saw a sea of fire in the darkness,
and against it moving masses of human figures. Flames were devouring
the huts and tents. Despairing shrieks and yelling cries reached their
ears; they saw thousands upon thousands of wild and desperate faces;
and through this inferno a column of soldiers was cutting its way to
the bridge, between the two hedges of dead bodies.

"Our rearguard is in full retreat," cried the major. "There is no hope
left!"

"I have spared your traveling carriage, Philip," said a friendly
voice.

Sucy turned and saw the young aide-de-camp by the light of the flames.