the Cossacks, and that she knew not whether he was alive or dead. Henri tried to console her, helped her to take care of the children, and defended her as well as he could from the rude assaults of the famishing soldiers who surrounded the carriage, begging for food, or rather demanding it.
At last they reached the bank of the Beresina, but it was to find themselves in the midst of untold confusion and unutterable horror. The frozen marsh beside the river was thronged with an innumerable crowd, increasing in density as it neared the heads of the two bridges which had been thrown across the current. Hundreds of vehicles were there, vainly attempting to force a passage through the living mass. Oaths and shrieks, cries, groans, and entreaties resounded upon every side. To add to the terrors of the scene, the Russians were pouring a continuous fire upon the troops which were endeavouring to cross the river.
In the midst of all this bewildering, maddening confusion, Henri found himself thinking dreamily of his mother's stories of the terrible passage of the Loire by the defeated Vendéans. "It was like the day of judgment," she used to say. "And what," asked Henri, "would she have thought of this?"
He was startled by a voice near him. "Monsieur Henri, is it you? Is it really you?" cried some one in the crowd, seizing his hand and grasping it. "This is indeed a miracle."
"Féron! dear Féron!" exclaimed Henri, springing from his seat in the carriage and throwing himself into the arms of his comrade.
Questions and explanations followed, and each told the other his adventures since they parted.
"Where is our regiment?" asked Henri.
"It has ceased to exist," returned Féron. "'Sauve qui peut' is our only marching order now."
"Ah, friend," said Henri, "I see you have suffered. Your hand—"
