over his worn features, and his eyes were closed. Opening them for a moment, he murmured, "Féron—my mother—Clémence. Ask them to forgive me. Good-bye, dear Féron. God bless thee!"
The others meanwhile continued their march. In those terrible days the fall of a comrade scarcely made a Frenchman turn his head. Seppel called to Féron, "Come along, man! For what are you lingering?"
To stay behind would be to share the fate of Henri, not to rescue him. Féron turned sadly away; but after taking two or three steps, turned back once more, murmuring, "What a fool I am! No good to him, and a sore loss to me. Still, if he should awake, even for a moment." Stooping down, he slipped his flask of vodka into the benumbed hand of Henri. "Adieu, comrade," he said. "If ever I see France again, I will tell thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence."
He rejoined his comrades, and marched on; but as long as it continued in sight, he could not help looking back, every now and then, to that black spot in the snow where a comrade had lain down to die. "Soon enough," he thought, "it will be covered with white, and all trace of my poor friend gone for ever. Perhaps I may be the next—who knows?"
But at least there was one sufferer unconscious of suffering now. A feeling of utter peace, of deep content, unknown for many days, steeped the weary senses of Henri. He seemed to be sinking into the heart of a profound and dreamless sleep. Pain and fatigue—cold and hunger of body—aching, feverish unrest of spirit—all had ceased together. The last sounds that reached his dulled ear before he passed into unconsciousness were the words of Féron, "Thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence." And once again those beloved faces drew near—bent over him glimmered faintly and yet more faintly—at last vanished into air. But he did not even know that they had vanished. All was oblivion now.
