remains of military discipline, prevented an outbreak of open violence.
"Fools for their pains!" said Féron bitterly. "They might know by this time that the general never has anything to spare for the soldier. But I am glad he is gone, for the sight of his luxuries made me mad. May his horses break their knees in the next snow-drift! Sure to do it before long. That's one comfort!"
"And then," said a comrade, "perhaps we may overtake him, and get horses, stores, and all. What a supper we should have!"
"Ay," observed another, "his horses are very unlike the last we supped upon. Poor brutes! they were little more than skin and bone."
"Féron," asked a third, "are there no horses in this accursed country—no men, no food, no anything?"
"Not much, I suppose, at the best of times. But remember, my lad, we marched over this very ground ourselves a few months ago, and wasted and destroyed all we could find."
It was too true. In this respect they were filled with the fruit of their own devices; their wanton acts of pillage and devastation recoiled upon their own heads.
"Féron," murmured once more the faint voice of Henri, "I can go no further. I must lie down and rest."
"Monsieur Henri, if you lie down on that ground, you rise never more."
"I know it; but I can bear up no longer. My sight is gone, my limbs are failing. Dear Féron, let me go." And in spite of the sustaining arm of his friend, he staggered and fell. Féron bent over him, entreating him to rise, and offering his help.
"Monsieur Henri, think of your mother—of your sister, Mademoiselle Clémence. If you hope ever to see their sweet faces again, rouse yourself, exert all your strength."
But already Henri seemed half-asleep. A look of rest stole
