hair beside her cheek. Her smile went out. She withdrew her hand, but she repeated:
"I'm not afraid. I'll simply grow numb and then fall asleep. But you go on and save yourself."
Seeing him shake his head, she caught his hands again, and so strongly that the chill of her touch filled his veins with an icy fire.
"I'll be unhappy. You'll make me so unhappy if you stay. Please go."
He raised the small, white hand and pressed it to his lips.
She said: "You are crying!"
"No, no!"
"There! I see the tears shining on my hand. What is your name?"
"Pierre."
"Pierre? I like that name. Pierre, to make me happy, will you go? Your face is all white and touched with a shadow of blue. It is the cold. Oh, won't you go?" Then she pleaded, finding him obdurate: "If you won't go for me, then go for your father."
He raised his head with a sudden laughter, and, raising it, the wind beat into his face fiercely and the particles of snow whipped his skin.
"Dear Pierre, then for your mother?"
He bowed his head.
"Not for all the people who love you and wait for you now by some warm fire—some cozy fire, all yellow and bright?"
He took her hands and with them covered his eyes.
