"Fox lives then?" cried De Breze, with sparkling hungry eyes.

"Yes. At present he is making the experiment how long an animal can live
without food."

"Have mercy upon him, poor beast! Terminate his pangs by a noble death.
Let him save thy friends and thyself from starving. For myself alone I
do not plead; I am but an amateur in polite literature. But Savarin, the
illustrious Savarin,--in criticism the French Longinus--in poetry the
Parisian Horace--in social life the genius of gaiety in pantaloons,--
contemplate his attenuated frame! Shall he perish for want of food while
thou hast such superfluity in thy larder? I appeal to thy heart, thy
conscience, thy patriotism. What, in the eyes of France, are a thousand
Foxes compared to a single Savarin?"

"At this moment," sighed Savarin, "I could swallow anything, however
nauseous, even thy flattery, De Breze. But, my friend Frederic, thou
goest into battle--what will become of Fox if thou fall? Will he not be
devoured by strangers? Surely it were a sweeter thought to his faithful
heart to furnish a repast to thy friends?--his virtues acknowledged, his
memory blest!"

"Thou dost look very lean, my poor Savarin! And how hospitable thou wert
when yet plump!" said Frederic, pathetically. "And certainly, if I live,
Fox will starve; if I am slain, Fox will be eaten. Yet, poor Fox, dear
Fox, who lay on my breast when I was frostbitten. No; I have not the
heart to order him to the spit for you. Urge it not."

"I will save thee that pang," cried De Breze. "We are close by thy