A thrill of involuntary admiration passed through the spectators, and for some moments no one spoke. Meanwhile, in the calm summer sky outside, the sun was rising, and its first red beams flashed through the little window upon the homely features of the serf, which shone with a courage and devotion that were almost sublime.
"Cut him down!" cried a solitary voice, that of the conscript who, the night before, had challenged Féron's skill. But half-a-dozen other voices cried, "Shame!" while Seppel himself seemed to hesitate, and stood with the air of a man perplexed and confounded.
In the meantime Henri de Talmont, who had hitherto taken no part in the scene, walked boldly up to the prisoner. He held in his hand a fine white cambric handkerchief, which he wound carefully about the wounded arm. "As you love your Czar," he said gently, "so we Royalists in France loved our King."
The words, of course, fell meaningless upon the ear of Michael; but the tones in which they were uttered, and the action which accompanied them, were abundantly intelligible. The eyes of the Russian serf and the French gentleman met with a look of comprehension and sympathy.
"Shall we let him go?" Seppel asked at length. "What say you, mes enfants?"
There was now not one dissentient voice, and Seppel turned to the interpreter. "Tell him, Pole, that we Frenchmen know how to respect a brave enemy. He is free."
Michael heard, bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment, took up the sacred picture with his remaining hand, and walked slowly out. He scarcely noticed the ringing cheer which the excitable Frenchmen sent after him. Their applause was nothing to him: it could not bring back the young life of his betrothed, flowing forth so quickly through the wound their guns had made last night. Enough if he might but be in
