"Frost-bitten one bitter night. I could not help thinking when I lost it of that poor Russian whom we branded in the hand before we came to Moscow. Do you remember him, Monsieur Henri?"
"I ought to remember him. I saw him again in the city, and he did me a good turn.—Now, Féron, I want you, if you can, to help me to protect this lady and these two helpless little children."
"If I can. But we must be patient. Those who are rushing madly forward to try and reach the bridge only increase their own danger. Already they are trampling one another down by dozens."
"Ay," said Henri, "because they are afraid the bridges will be burned or broken as soon as the effective troops have passed over them, to protect the retreat of the Emperor."
"Fools! Do they think the Emperor will let the bridges be touched so long as one Frenchman or Frenchwoman remains upon this side? They do not know him," returned Féron.
"Perhaps not," said Henri sadly. "Ah, what is this?" he cried the next moment, as a bullet whizzed close by them through the air.
"I believe our rear-guard and the Russians are fighting it out, and we are near enough to come in for a stray shot or two."
"Then help me to turn this carriage over, that we may make a shelter for the lady."
This was accomplished, not without some difficulty. Anxious hours of suspense and forced inactivity followed. Night fell, but an awful light still illumined the landscape. What looked like a semicircle of flame environed half the sky. It was the fiery breath of the Russian cannon.
Suddenly there came a sound of fearful shrieks, and a frantic swaying and tossing of the crowd. One of the bridges—that constructed for the artillery—had broken down, precipitating its
